Weakness
by Biancaneve
Summary: Set between 2.8 and 2.9. When the gang are captured, Gisborne tries to use Allan's inside knowledge to make them reveal Robin's whereabouts. Is he too far away to rescue them? Features all characters, with a focus on Allan and Will.
1. Chapter 1

"Who's the weak link, Allan?"

_Not being funny, but... _"That'd be me, wouldn't it?"

It really wasn't funny. Nothing about the situation was funny, and his wisecrack did nothing for his spirits.

Gisborne wasn't amused either.

"That's as may be. But you don't know where Hood and the Pact are. They do."

He sighed, the sigh of a man whose time was being wasted. Guy of Gisborne hated waste. Every measured word and look and movement that Guy made spoke economy, purpose.

He was like John in that respect. Or Will.

_John. Will. _

There lay the difference between him and the Sheriff. Vaysey was extravagant, theatrical, loud in speech and gesture. Vaysey was more like Much.

_Much._

_John. Will. Much. Which? Which?_

"Which one will break most easily, A'Dale?" Gisbourne repeated his question.

For Gisbourne, emotion was almost always a means to an end. Allan knew this, knew that the next words he spoke were not supposed to comfort him, but merely to convince him to do what Guy wanted.

"I'll get the information I need anyway. This just saves time. If I target the weakest link, that means nobody else needs to suffer. Everybody wins."

Pain was a means to an end, as well. To most men, torture was an abhorrence. To Vaysey, it was a joy. To Gisborne, it was a scientific process; the steps to be taken to reach a desired result. It did not bother him in the slightest; his victims' screams did not keep him awake at night, but nor did he take pleasure in it. Unless it was someone he really hated. Someone like Robin.

Gisborne shifted slightly on his heels, a gesture which told Allan he was running out of time to make his choice.

_John. Will. Much. _

A dripping of water somewhere nearby seemed to count out the three names as they spun through his head, faster and faster. Logically, what Gisborne said made sense – the least suffering for the smallest number. Everybody wins. But Allan couldn't bring himself to choose a man, to say a name, to utter the word that would have one of his former friends taken from the dungeon and subjected to Gisborne.

He had said he wouldn't help Guy to kill anyone, and he wouldn't help him torture, either.

"Fine." Gisborne spun on his heel and addressed the waiting jailer. "Bring the woman."

_Djaq. _The name he hadn't dared to even think in case Gisborne somehow plucked it from his mind.

"No!" The word was out of his mouth before he had time to think. Gisborne turned to face him slowly, a raised eyebrow all he needed to signify that he was waiting for an explanation.

"Not being funny, but she's tough, for a girl. She'll be hard work..."

She would be, too. She would hold out, and Gisborne would keep hurting her. She would be half dead before he got a word out of her, and even that would probably only be one of her bloody scary Arabic curses.

Allan could see that Gisborne was not convinced. It didn't even occur to him that a woman could be as strong as a man. It was a blind spot of his, one that Marian had exploited several times.

"Besides," he went on, improvising wildly, "Her English isn't that great. Even if Hood's told her about the plan, she probably wouldn't understand properly. Waste of time, mate."

Gisborne gave a slight shrug. "Fine." Allan had barely released his breath before he spoke again.

"Bring the woman," he told the guard, before turning back to his servant.

"A lesson in first principles, A'Dale. Anyone can be broken. Enough leverage and anyone will give you anything you ask. Some break easily," he continued with a faint nod at Allan. "For some, the threshold is very high. Some men can endure a great deal before betraying their friends, their beliefs, their cause. It can still be done. It just takes longer, because these men will choose to take the pain themselves, rather than let others suffer. Self-sacrifice is an appealing notion to some people. They value other lives more highly than their own.

"So you change the leverage. Use another's life. If they are faced with a choice between causing suffering to someone else by speaking, and causing suffering to someone right in front of them by not speaking, suddenly the situation is a lot less clear. They feel much less like a hero." Guy took a swig from the canteen of water at his hip.

Allan did not like where this was going.

"Which one now, Allan? Which one will talk most easily, to protect the woman?"

This time Allan knew he had to speak. The right choice would mean the least suffering for Djaq. He offered up a silent prayer for forgiveness.

"That'd be Will. Will Scarlett."


	2. Chapter 2

**annoying spinning-archery-target graphic...**

_Four days earlier... The Outlaws' Camp_

"This is how it goes."

"There's poor people going hungry."

"You tell us what you've got…"

"… be honest with us,"

Silence.

"Much."

"Much. That's you." Djaq nudged him with her foot.

"I knew that," Much replied with dignity. "I was pausing for dramatic effect. But since you've interrupted me, I suggest we start again, from the top."

The other three outlaws stifled their groans as Much began the litany again.

"This is how it goes."

"There's poor people going hungry," added Will, his eyes narrowing, as they did every time he spoke the words and thought of their meaning. This was only a rehearsal, and a grudging one at that, but it made no difference.

"You tell us what you've got..." Little John was next to speak, making somewhat less of his, admittedly, less emotive line.

"... be honest with us..." said Djaq, looking upwards through the trees as if hoping to see her salvation come plummeting from the sky. A falling branch? A lightning bolt? A squirrel who'd died of the boredom that would surely soon kill her as well? Any one of those would be a welcome distraction.

There was another long pause, that was broken by Much shaking himself.

"And we take one tenth so the poor can eat."

"Oi, that's my line! You said tw-" Too late, Will caught himself, as Djaq signalled his mistake with every muscle in her expressive face. "Doesn't matter, you can have them both. Keep going."

"No, we start again. We are going to get through it without any interruptions!"

John wondered whether Much was truly unaware that all the "interruptions" were, in reality, mistakes. His mistakes. Did he really not know, or was he simply using one word when he meant another? "A lie," John thought.

Much stood up and faced the others across the fireplace, brandishing his wooden spoon like the conductor of a Cathedral choir. The only problem was, that he was never quite sure where the next voice was coming from, so he simply waved it in the general direction of the whole group.

"This is how it goes." _Sorry, _Will mouthed as Much spoke his first line, the only one he consistently managed to remember.

"There's poor people going hungry..." In answer, Djaq's hand moved to the dagger at her waist. She fingered the hilt, and twitched her eyes appraisingly in Much's direction.

"You tell us what you've got..." John frowned at the two youngest outlaws, shaking his head as he spoke.

"Be honest with us..." Djaq's tone was a little sulky at the reproach, but behind Much's back, John indicated the long wooden staff that lay beside him, near the fire. _ Less mess, _he whispered.

It was perhaps unfortunate that as Much finally managed to say his own line, without trespassing on anyone else's, progress was interrupted by a snort of laughter that tore his attention back from the army of rich nobles he was addressing in his mind's eye.

It was hard to say where it had come from, as all three of them seemed to be engaged in a silent fit of mirth that rapidly increased in volume as Much hurled his spoon across the campsite.

"I don't see what's so funny. This is a serious business!" He marched across to retrieve it as his friends composed themselves.

"This is worse than last time..." Will complained. Indeed, when Robin had first come up with the new ambush procedure, it had taken seemingly interminable repetitions around the campfire at night to get everyone to speak their parts on cue.

Suddenly Will regretted his words, as he realised that, like him, John and Djaq were remembering what had happened the last time they had "rehearsed". The teasing banter that had gradually grown into genuine irritation; the quarrel that had broken out when Allan grew infuriated with Much's mistakes, and only ended when John threatened to knock their heads together.

The merriment faded as all three consciously averted their eyes from the empty bunk above Will's that was one of the reasons that the lines now had to be redistributed. Oblivious to the shift in moode, Much returned to his place. "Okay, let's try it again," he said with a long-suffering sigh.

"Much," Will suggested hopefully, "Perhaps we don't need to do the speech this way, while Robin's gone? Maybe one person can explain the terms, the way we used to do it."

"Yes!" Djaq cut in, with a look of such gratitude on her face that Will felt, for a moment, as proud if he had defeated the Sheriff, Gisborne and the Black Knights singlehanded armed only with Much's spoon. "You could do it, if you like, Much."

Much was more than capable of remembering the whole thing; it was when it was broken down into phrases that he became confused. He considered the idea.

"No," he said finally. "You're not getting out of this so easily. Robin left me in charge, and I'm not letting things slip."

Nobody else could remember Robin leaving Much in charge, as such. His exact words, accompanied by a wink aimed at nobody in particular, had been, "I need you to keep an eye on things here," and had been spoken in response to a fit of moping from Much about why, precisely, he had not been asked to accompany Robin on his journey.

"I hardly think Marian will be of more use than me," Much had sulked.

"I've told you. Headingley is an old friend of her father's," Robin explained again. "He doesn't know me from Adam. She needs to come if he is to trust me, and we need him to trust me if we are to have any hope of outwitting the Black Knights."

This was all true, but nobody doubted that Robin's choice of travelling companion had other motivation as well.

"Besides, I cannot leave only three men to man the camp and watch over the forest. I need you to keep an eye on things here." Much had puffed with pride. Robin had smirked at his own cleverness. Marian had shaken her head slightly, always disapproving of Robin's teasing treatment of his most loyal friend. And the next morning, Robin and Marian had set off, armed with the Sheriff's Pact and the names of three nobles, scattered throughout England, who they knew to be loyal to the King.

Leaving behind Much, for whom Will, Djaq and John had enough affection to prevent them from tactlessly pointing out the truth behind his empty "promotion", even now as he prepared to sail off into another rendition of the outlaws' customary welcome speech.

"This is how it goes..."


	3. Chapter 3

John did not understand men who sang in the forest.

The outlaws sang, sometimes, of course - Much, a little too often for the preservation of general amity and goodwill. Robin was prone to whistling. And then there were the nights when, buoyed by success and a little ale, they had all sung. He could picture them, around the campfire, belting out a tavern song they all knew. Everyone competing to drown out Much's strident voice which seemed to get louder the harder they tried... Robin forgetting that he was a leader and the self-appointed spirit of England and laughing like a young boy who had never been to war... Will, quietly teaching Djaq the words... Allan, pausing in mid-chorus to point out and explain the bawdy lines that the younger man had skimmed over, his face burning from more than the firelight.

He shook his head. Sometimes songs could make a man sad.

_If you've never kissed John Little... _

But the forest was their home, and they hardly went around singing when there was trouble about, did they? That was what puzzled Little John – men who did not belong in the forest, who were afraid of the terrible rogues who dwelt there, and so decided to distract themselves from the dread path they must travel down by letting rip with a cheery ditty that served both to draw attention to them, and prevent them noticing their trackers until it was much too late.

That, he did not understand.

Fools like that deserved to be robbed.

This was not a particularly cheerful song, though. The melody crawling through the trees had a mournful, almost despairing tone.

_Quantus tremor est futurus,  
quando judex est venturus,  
cuncta stricte discussurus!_

Something inside John registered the words, yet they meant nothing to him. He turned to his companion, his puzzled expression evident even through his bushy beard.

Will, whose last visit to the little Locksley church was in slightly less distant memory, cleared matters up for him. "Latin," he said softly. "Monks, probably."

John grunted. Men of the cloth were not excused from paying Robin's "poor tax". Too many there were who took vows of poverty and then grew fat from the selling of indulgences. As the group rounded the corner, John nodded at Will, and the two men drew back their bows and fired.

Their arrows landed in the middle of the path, mere feet in front of the straggling, dark-robed group, all on foot, carrying little. Almost instantly, the whistle and thud of another pair of arrows from across the path indicated that either Djaq had not yet given in to the temptation to strangle Much, or she had mastered Robin's trick of firing two arrows at once. The gang reloaded, firing another volley, and another, before noticing something strange.

The men were still walking.

Normally this was the point in an ambush where their victims would stop, confused for an instant, and then either fearful or defensive as was their wont. They would call "Who's there?", or draw swords, try to run or drop to the ground. People's reactions to an attack by invisible archers were as many and varied as the trees in Sherwood Forest.

But this was something they had never seen before. The dozen or so figures did not alter their slow, shuffling pace, nor break in their song.

_Mors stupebit et natura,  
cum resurget creatura,  
judicanti responsura._

The gang fired again, forced to aim further up the path as the monks walked right past their first arrows as if they were nothing more than a patch of wildflowers blooming from the forest floor.

_Ingemisco, tamquam reus:  
culpa rubet vultus meus:  
supplicanti parce, Deus._

"This is weird," Will muttered. Even over the eerie sound of the hymn, Much could be heard expressing the same sentiment, a panicked note to his voice as he desperately tried to weigh up what Robin would do now.

Thankfully, he was spared the need to make further decisions, for the monks had apparently, finally, decided to play along. As one, still singing, they dropped to the ground, their foreheads touching the leaf litter of the forest floor.

By the time the gang had emerged from the trees and taken their places, weapons at the ready, the group had finished their song and were climbing to their feet again. At close quarters, it was clear that they were not monks; none of them wore a tonsure, and four of them were women.

"This is how it goes," announced Much.

"There-" Will began, but stopped as it became evident that Much had not finished.

"There's poor people going hungry. You tell us what you've got. Be honest with us, and we take one tenth so the poor can eat. Lie, or resist, and we take it all!" he concluded with a dramatic flourish of his hand, before adding for good measure, "We are Robin Hood!"

There was a pause, before a thin man with greying hair and a sallow complexion spoke.

"What we bring to the sinful people of Nottingham is worth more than bread or coins."

"What's that then?" Will asked, impassive. Few people understood the worth of bread unless they had felt the lack of it.

"We bring word of the wrath of God. We bring a chance to cleanse and scourge the sins of the world and atone for the wickedness of God's children."

An involuntary shudder passed over Much. There was a strange tone in the man's voice, a strange light in his eyes, that reminded him of Joseph, the Sheriff's scientist who had spoken of cleaning England and tried to feed the gang poisoned soup.

He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Djaq, who was looking not at the man's wide eyes but at the dark liquid seeping through back of his robe.

"Blood," she gasped. "Sir, you are wounded!" She moved towards him, but he pushed her roughly away.

"Back, filthy infidel! Let not your devil's hands taint my penitence!"

"How DARE you speak to her like that, you, you, you..." Much spluttered. John grasped his staff a little more firmly, and Will's jaw clenched.

"Those words are not welcome in this wood," he said, a steely edge to his voice. Djaq gave a minute shake of her head. It was nothing she had not heard before, and the best way to fight such prejudice was with actions, not words. Later, when she was alone, she would let herself be angry, but for now she stepped back, her eyes noting as she did so that all the travellers bore bloodstains.

"I have bandages and medicine back at our camp. If any of you would care to wait while I fetch them, I will dress your wounds for you."

"Djaq, you are not going to help him!" cried an incredulous Much.

She nodded. A wound was a wound, no matter how ignorant the wounded... And, if she happened to use that batch of antiseptic that had just a little too much rosemary, and stung like a desert sandstorm... Well, let's call it the wrath of Allah.

The leader shook his head. "We bear our wounds proudly as the marks of redemption! The chastisement of a vengeful God on his sinful children, by which we may ultimately earn his forgiveness!" With that, he shrugged the robe off his shoulders, revealing the torn and bloodied mess that was his back. Scabs crisscrossed with fresher wounds, the red of blood and the sickly yellow of pus.

"Oh, that is revolting," Much murmered under his breath, unease dampening his habitual volume.

"It is already becoming infected," Djaq said. "You must let me treat you."

"Who are we in our weakness, to shrink from the suffering that is the fruit of our sin? Did Christ call for bandages as he died on the cross? Our pain is the penance of all the world."

That was all very well, but... "What is your business in Nottingham?" John asked bluntly.

"We go to spread the word of the Brothers of the Passion. To call the people of Nottingham to join us in our penitence and help to assuage the mighty vengeance God is wreaking on the land."

"Meaning what, exactly?" Will was suspicious.

"Come tomorrow to the market square, sinner, and beg forgiveness for your evil deeds! Come and be cleansed! Come and renounce the devil and submit yourself to the judgment of the Father!"

Looking the man up and down, Will came to a decision. "We might do that. For now, we'll let you folk be on your way."

"Now wait a minute-" Much burst out, but the Brothers of the Passion paid no attention, resuming their progress down the path. The leader's voice rang out in song, answered by the rest, as the turned the next corner and vanished from sight.

"What did you do that for?" demanded Much.

"Well, it was obvious we weren't going to get any sense out of him, were we?" Will responded.

"What about the money?!" Much wasn't giving up that easily.

"Considering that there's a gang of lunatics marching to Nottingham, it didn't seem important."

Will's voice was low and worried. He paused and looked around the little circle. "Did you see it?"

"See what?" Much shook his head at Will, but it was Djaq who answered.

"The whip hanging from his belt."

Will nodded. "I think those people did that to themselves. And I don't like it."

Understanding dawning on his face, Much said, "I have seen that before. In the Holy Land..."

"Shiites," Djaq confirmed. "Once a year, to commemorate the death of Husayn ibn Ali, the prophet's grandson, they gather in the towns and some of them whip themselves until they bleed. But those men were not Muslims. Clearly," she snorted. Much gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze.

"But refusing medical treatment, that is something different altogether," she went on. "I do not understand. To wilfully allow your injuries to worsen, it is..."

"Trouble," John said gruffly. "They're trouble."

"I don't know what they're planning, but what if they don't stop at hurting themselves?" Will asked.

There was silence for a moment, as they all waited for John to speak the inevitable words.

They would go to Nottingham.


	4. Chapter 4

As "Robin Hood" made the acquaintance of the Brothers of the Passion in Sherwood Forest, the real Robin Hood was riding south and enjoying a rare opportunity to spend time alone with the woman he loved – even if she was making fun of him.

"The Valiant Knights," he said now, with a pleased grin.

"The Cocky Knights," Marian rejoined, rolling her eyes.

"Spoilsport. What about, the Knights Protector?"

"I always knew you were jealous of the Templars!"

"I am not!" Robin protested. "Bunch of weirdos... What if we keep it simple: the White Knights!"

Marian pretended to consider this, then shook her head with a mock-serious expression that was belied by the twinkle in her lively green eyes.

"I'm afraid not. White really isn't your colour."

"I'll have you know I wore white for five years in the Holy Land. It was our uniform!"

"Well then, it's lucky you changed your clothes before you came back, or I might not have been so pleased to see you."

Robin laughed. "What, you mean you would have actually shot me, rather than just threatening?"

"Perhaps you should wait until your new alliance actually has a few members, before you go to all the trouble of naming it?" Marian suggested.

"It's just a matter of time," he said, with the air of unshakeable confidence that was his trademark, and precisely the reason that Marian often took it upon herself to bring him down a peg or two. "Dalloway and Leroy fought with me in the King's Guard; I know they will join us. And you say Headingley's a sure bet as well, so..."

"He was my father's dearest friend," Marian confirmed. "When he sees the pact, when he hears how my father died to get it, he must help us."

Robin sighed, unable to completely share her certainty. Once, that Lord Headingley had been Sir Edward's friend would have been enough to make him believe in the man. But Robin had never completely managed to reconcile the memory of the strong, just Sheriff of Nottingham he had so admired as a youth, with the frightened old man who had greeted him on his return from the war. Allan had been known to refer to him as "Lord Lack-spine".

_Takes one to know one._ Robin's mouth hardened at the thought of the cowardly traitor. Still, Sir Edward had died a hero's death, and he supposed that was what mattered.

Sensing the darkness of her companion's thoughts, Marian decided to change the subject.

"It is so long since I visited Headingley, I had forgotten how beautiful the countryside around here is, especially when the sun is shining."

"We should have got married before we left. It would have been a pleasant honeymoon trip."

Marian's pulse quickened. Robin's tone was light and his face impassive. Was this yet another of the jokes that filled their conversations, the humour that had for so long served to maintain the distance that circumstance dictated between them? She had been forced to hold him at arm's length for so long that at times she had almost felt her muscles aching. Were things different, now that she was no longer in Nottingham?

Could he be serious? He hadn't sounded serious. She realised he was waiting for her response.

"Of course," she replied brightly. "Every romantic escape should begin with stealing a pair of horses for the journey!"

Robin's heart sank, and he cursed the awkwardness that prevented him saying what he meant without the shield of a joke. He had faced Saladin's army, the Sheriff's noose, and all manner of other enemies besides, but he was still afraid to come out and ask Marian for her hand in marriage. Ever since his return, their relationship had been a game of cat-and-mouse, sometimes delicious, sometimes agonising, but the rules had changed since Sir Edward had died. There was nothing standing between them now, and yet he did not dare to take the step that would close that gap forever.

"Nothing like it to get the blood moving in the morning!" he joked, and the pair continued on their merry way.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They arrived at dusk at Headingley Manor, and were greeted by a tall, broad-shouldered man who came out of the house beaming beneath his grey beard.

"Marian! My dear child!"

"Sir Martin, it is good to see you!" she said warmly as she dismounted.

"Sir Martin, indeed!" he chided, pulling her into an embrace. "So formal now that you are a beautiful married woman. You always called me Uncle before." Turning to Robin, he extended a hand.

"My Lord Gisborne, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Robin made a choking sound, glad that he had nothing in his mouth because he would certainly have spat it all over the old man. Marian hastened to intervene.

"Oh, no, Uncle Martin. This is Robin of Locksley, an old friend of mine and of my father's. He has kindly escorted me here to bring you some sad news, and to ask a favour of you."

Sir Martin's face fell. "I was afraid your news could not be good. I have had no reply to any of my letters to your father, not since he wrote to tell me of your approaching marriage to Sir Guy. He is...?" Marian nodded, answering the unspoken question in Sir Martin's sorrowful voice.

"Come inside, my dear." He called orders to his servants, ushering Robin and Marian into the hall and urging them to be seated before the fire.

Slowly, they related the sad tale of the last months of Sir Edward Fitzwalter's life. Sir Martin frowned as he heard of Gisborne's treachery, the impostor King and Marian's flight from the altar. His brow furrowed even more deeply when Marian told him how their home had been burned to the ground, Sir Edward imprisoned and herself placed under house arrest in the castle. By the time they had reached the alliance of the Black Knights, and Sir Edward's valiant death as he recovered the great Pact of Nottingham from the Sheriff, his face was a mask of anxiety.

Silence fell as the travellers finished their story, broken at last by Sir Martin.

"My poor child. You have had so much to endure. But you have come to the right place. I always promised your father that if he should die, I would see to your protection; he would have done the same for my dear Susan if I had died before she was safely married. My home is yours, and I will do all in my power to make you happy here."

Marian's eyes glistened; the old man reminded her so much of her father.

"You are very kind, Sir Martin. But that is not why we are here."

Robin took over, speaking softly. "We mean to form an alliance of loyal nobles to counter the Black Knights' treason. Marian was sure that you would not wish Sir Edward's sacrifice to be in vain."

Sir Martin shook his head. "Of course not; I will do all I can to honour my friend's memory. But I am an old man, and if what you say is true, the Black Knights' army is vast. What can I – what can we – do?"

"For now," Robin replied, "Our first priority is to get word to the King. One message was sent a few weeks ago with a soldier returning to the Holy Land. But the journey is long and dangerous; there is no guarantee that he will arrive. The more messages we can send with trustworthy men, the greater the chance that one at least will reach His Majesty."

Sir Martin's face cleared slightly. "That makes good sense. And there I can help you. A young man from a neighbouring estate, the son of a good friend, is soon to leave for the Holy Land to join the King's army. I am sure young Peter would be proud to carry a warning to his sovereign. Tomorrow, if you like, I will take you to meet him."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As Marian prepared for bed in one of Sir Martin's guestchambers, there was a tentative knock at the door.

"Marian, child. Are you... decent?"

"Yes, Uncle Martin. Come in, if you wish."

Sir Martin looked even older in his robe and nightcap. Seating himself by the fire, he looked into the flames as he spoke.

"Marian, you know I am pleased to be able to help Locksley serve the King. But what I said earlier still holds true. I want you to stay here with me."

Marian opened her mouth to protest.

"I know it is what your father would have wanted. In his last letters, Marian, he admitted to being very concerned about your future. He feared that he would not be able to keep you safe. When you agreed to marry Sir Guy, he was relieved to know that you would be protected."

"Sir Guy is a traitor." Marian said flatly.

"And you are still not safe. Besides the obvious danger of living in the forest, there is your reputation to think of..."

"Nobody knows I have joined Robin in the forest," she assured him. "I have given it out that I am in mourning at Ripley Convent."

"That is something, I suppose," he nodded thoughtfully. "But it is still unthinkable. A maiden, living alone in the woods with a gang of men, however loyal to their king they may be."

"I am not alone; I have a... a chaperone of sorts, another woman."

"Is she married? A respectable matron?" he asked hopefully. Marian made no reply.

"I thought as much. Your serving maid, I expect. It is not enough, and you know it."

Marian tried hard to repress the sudden image of Djaq as anyone's maid. This was not a laughing matter. Sir Martin looked her in the eyes.

"Please, Marian. You can still help the King. You can still help the poor – Susan did a lot of good for the peasants of this estate, before she married. But here you will be safe, and comfortable. It is what your father would have wanted. He would have wanted me to take care of you."

"I am safe in the forest, I promise. I can take take of myself, Uncle Martin," she said gently. "And nobody knows I am there, and when the King returns, Robin and I will marry and this will all be in the past."

"Ah. Robin. You are betrothed, then." Sir Martin's expression brightened, a little. A betrothal went some way towards protecting a woman's reputation, although he had not forgotten the way Marian's first betrothal to the handsome young Earl of Huntingdon had ended.

"It is not... official," Marian replied honestly. "But it is understood." At least, she thought it was. That was what you did, when you loved one another. Robin would not joke about it if he did not mean for it to someday become true.

Sir Martin sighed. "Please, Marian. For me. For your father."

Marian had one last ace up her sleeve. "He would have wanted me to do this. I know he often disapproved of the choices I made, but before he died, he gave me his blessing to follow my dreams."

The pain in the old man's face grew deeper. "Oh, my poor child. I had not realised you were with him at the end."

Tears sprang into Marian's eyes at the memory. "No, I was not in time. But Robin was with him, and Father asked him to tell me."

"Ah. Well, I am sure your father was grateful to have a good friend like Robin bear him company in his last moments," Sir Martin comforted her. "You are... quite sure, then?"

"I am sure," she replied. Sir Martin nodded, and with a final sad embrace, he left her alone to sleep.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Not long after, there was a scratching sound outside Marian's window. She opened it, and Robin clambered over the sill.

"Even when we are in the same house, you still cannot resist the temptation!"

"Force of habit," Robin answered, drawing her to him and answering her mock-disapproval with a kiss. Her lingering sadness at her conversation with Sir Martin melted away as his hands moved in her hair and she felt the sweet burning sensation of his stubbled chin against her skin.

"Besides," he said innocently, drawing breath, "What if I had run into Sir Martin in the hallway outside your room? How would that look?" Marian sighed, and Robin touched her cheek gently, joking at an end.

"What is wrong, my love?"

"Sir Martin disapproves of me living with you in the forest. He wants me to come and stay here, with him."

Robin said nothing, but his face asked the question for him.

"Well of course not!" Marian answered, exasperated. "Still, it is hard. He was so sad. I had already forgotten what it is like to have someone who cares and is worried about you."

"I care." Robin said softly. "And I know you don't like it, but I am always worried about you. In some ways, I would be glad to know you were here, safe. But..."

"But?" Marian breathed.

"But I could not bear to have you so far away."

"Neither could I."

Eyes intent on each other's faces and the vulnerable honesty they saw there, ears deaf to everything but the rush of their own blood and the pounding of their hearts, the lovers neither saw nor heard the dark figure who slipped from Sir Martin's stable and rode swiftly away in the direction of the London road.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: I've cheated a little bit with the history, as flagellant sects like this aren't recorded as popping up until the 1250s. I've decided this is just an early, unrecorded group... **

**Thanks to my reviewers!**

* * *

**Chapter Five**

A diminutive figure in black livery lounged by a window of Nottingham Castle. He was enjoying the show. It wasn't every day a bunch of nutters set up camp in the marketplace and started thrashing themselves for the amusement of the crowd.

"And so I call upon you, sinners of Nottingham, to join us in our devotions! Join us in our atonement! Join us in our penance for the sin into which we are born and into which we sink further every day of our evil existance!"

The tall one in front had a mouth on him, that was for sure. It was rare that Allan-a-Dale met someone who he thought could out-talk him, but this bloke was definitely a prospect. He'd been off on one for at least an hour, not that it was the sort of stuff that made for a cheery tavern yarn; sin this and punishment that and pain and scourging and all manner of words that made Allan distinctly uncomfortable.

"Here, I've got an idea!" called a thick voice from the crowd that Allan recognised as belonging to Joss Blucher, a regular at the Trip. "How's about we keep going the way we have been? Every morning, you give yourself a good beating with a rod... and every night, I give my rod a good beating!" The crowd roared with laughter.

"You have to beat it yourself, Joss!" someone called. "No woman's going to touch it, is she mate?"

"Too big! It scares 'em!" Joss retorted into the deafening guffaws. His cockiness touched the right note, and the mob cheered their hero.

The flagellants were not so impressed.

"Every word of filth that you speak is another thorn in the forehead of our Lord! It is for your sins and his pain that we pay with our own flesh!" They rained another volley of lashes down on their bleeding backs. Allan shuddered. Nutters.

His attention was diverted by the sight of four familiar shapes entering the marketplace. They threaded their way through the throng, never standing still, moving as swiftly and erratically as a set of trick cups on a tavern table. Allan picked out the tall lithe figure of Will, John's brawny bulk, the tiny darkness that meant Djaq, and Much's ubiquitous hat. He recognised most of the people they greeted, as well: the bent shape of one-legged Pete Cooper; Joan Fletcher, a widow with a gorgeous set of twins, and Allan wasn't talking about those brats of hers; old Matthew Green who cared for his orphaned grandchildren and was even more of an old woman than Much; Sarah, Marian's former maid, whose daughter John had saved from poison. She worked in the castle kitchens now and never failed to glare at Allan when she saw him.

Allan's guts gave a twist as he watched the gang move through the marketplace, dispensing their largesse with a generosity that had been entirely absent when he had fallen out of favour. _Who'll look after you lot when you're old and grey, eh?_

It was a mug's game, Allan decided bitterly, hefting those great sacks around on a stinking hot day like this, with no reward but the occasional thank-you. Much better to be earning a decent wage, especially when half the time there was nothing to do and a fellow could just sit back – or lean forward, in this case – and watch the entertainment.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Down below, not everyone was enjoying the spectacle. The jovial, boisterous mood of the crowd had faded somewhat as the Brothers began to recite the punishments from God which had set them on this path. Loved ones lost to plague and poverty: that was a topic that nobody in Nottingham knew many funny jokes about.

_But how does this help anyone? _Will wondered, bewildered, as again and again the flagellants drew back their cruel whips and brought them stinging down. _They are already dead, and this will not bring them back or stop more dying. _He understood self-sacrifice when it could save another; it was a notion that had cost his mother her life and his father a hand. But this was pointless.

"And God hath spoken his anger with the death of innocents! And now we speak our penitance with the blood of our sinful flesh!"

_Swish! Swish!_

The crowd was beginning to murmur softly instead of laughing loudly.

"People of Nottingham, you are all sinners and God is angry with you! He sees your greed!"

_Swish! Swish!_

As if mesmerised, the peasants followed the whips' movement with their eyes.

"He sees your sloth!"

_Swish!_

"He sees your lust! He sees your envy! And He is furious!"

Somewhere in the packed marketplace, a woman was wailing.

_Swish!_

"He sees the pacts you have made with Satan! He sees how you harbour among you the enemies of the Christian faith!"

Will cast a worried glance at Djaq, who pulled the hood of her cloak up over her head. Will raised his eyebrows, and she smiled: it was a standing joke between them that only the Sheriff's cretinous guards ever fell for such a weak disguise.

It was not Saracens, however, of whom the man was speaking.

"The Jew lives among you, leeching your strength and your virtue! The Jew who betrayed our Lord Jesus Christ and even now denies his divinity! God sees the incubus Jew within this very city, and God is angry!"

_Swish! Swish!_

"Cast out the sin from your bosom! Cast out the greed and pride and lust from your sinful flesh! Cast out your weakness and take up the rod of penitence!"

"Cast out the Jews!" It was not one of the Brothers who had spoken - the voice had come from somewhere deep in the crush – but the words quickly became a chant. The mob began to surge out and away from the marketplace.

"Will! Djaq!" John could easily be seen, a head taller than most around him. "Jew Lane! NOW!"

The four outlaws pushed and shoved their way through the press of people, hoping to reach their destination before the main body of the baying crowd. St Nicholas Street was not far from the castle walls, a steep and narrow laneway that was never called by its proper name, but instead was identified by reference to its inhabitants. The gang had been there often, dropping off money or food. Many of Nottingham's Jews were successful traders, lenders or physicians, but the law of the land allowed them to be taxed at three times the rate of their Christian neighbours, and so they were among the city's poorest.

By the time they got there, the maddened flood of people had begun to smash windows and kick at doors, tearing down shop awnings and shouting in blind fury.

"It is madness," Djaq breathed, incredulous, and then she was lost in the melee.

As they waded in, fighting with fists and feet instead of swords and arrows, the gang were grateful for Robin's ban on killing: they had all had plenty of practice in subduing and disabling opponents without shedding their blood. They needed it now, for these people were not the enemy, just starved and miserable peasants who had temporarily taken leave of their senses.

Many of the Jews had emerged from their houses to defend their homes and families, but they were fighting a losing battle. As more and more chanting townspeople poured into the street, the rioters the gang managed to knock out were in danger of being crushed underfoot. Confronting a snarling man armed with a blazing torch, Will felled him with a blow, stamped the flames beneath his feet, and then hefted the unconscious body onto a low roof. A moment later, an idea forming in his mind, he clambered onto a water barrel and pulled himself up as well.

"People of Nottingham!" he shouted. "This is your town! These are your neighbours!" He paused to pick up a broken shingle and hurled it at a stocky cartmaker's apprentice who had his hands wrapped around Much's throat.

"They did not kill your children! Hunger and disease killed your children! And the Sheriff who sits in the castle and grows fat on your taxes while they starve! He deserves your anger! These people do not!"

Will sighed as his desperate words floated unheeded over the angry mob. He would never have Robin's flair for making speeches.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Allan's morning of leisure was cut abruptly short as Gisborne barrelled down the castle steps, with what looked like half the guard room at his heels.

"Allan!" he bellowed. "Down here! Jew Lane! Now!"

By the time Allan caught up with him, he had barely enough breath to ask, "What's the rush, guv? Let them have their fun, toast a few Jews! No skin off our nose, is it?"

"Those Jews are worth a lot more alive than dead," Gisborne remarked shortly. They had almost reached St Nicholas Street, and he turned to shout at the guards.

"Right! In there, break it up, and grab anyone you can catch who isn't a Jew! I want them all in the stocks. GO!"

Slowly but surely the guards overpowered the unruly crowd, and began dragging captives out of the bottleneck entrance to the street.

"I'm a Jew! Let me go, I'm a Jew! I live here!" one of the prisoners shouted.

Gisborne strode over to the struggling man. "Is that so? Well I'm sure you won't object to proving it." He drew his curved dagger. "And if you should happen to be missing the mark of your faith, I'll be most happy to help you in your conversion..."

"No!" the man curled himself up, protecting the threatened part. Guy sneered.

"I thought as much. The stocks!"

"Here, sir. Is this one a Jew?" one of the guards called, thrusting forward a small woman who thrashed violently in their grasp.

Allan's heart sank as Gisborne's smirk widened. "No indeed. That is a Saracen. And not just any Saracen – Hood's Saracen. Well done, men." Stepping forward, he addressed Djaq. "Where are your friends, wench?" His eyes roved over the top of her head, recognising another of the captives.

"Ah. My Lord of Bonchurch. We are honoured." He assessed the rest of the group before barking a command.

"These two, and the oaf, and the stripling over there – take them to the dungeons. I want them in shackles and I want them in separate cells! The rest are for the stocks. Go!"

The guards bore their prisoners away towards the castle. None of the outlaws so much as glanced in Allan's direction; he felt sure they had meant him to notice that. He was left alone with Gisborne.

Gisborne's smile was never a pleasant sight, because it usually indicated that things were about to go very badly wrong for someone else. Gisborne smiled now. This was very, very good. Hood's inner circle, all of them, were in his dungeon. He snorted. 'Inner circle'. He and Vaysey had called them that for months before it slowly dawned on them that Hood was never seen with any other men: they were all he had.

This would change everything. Sir Guy was growing tired of hearing the Sheriff question his loyalty, his commitment and his worth at every turn. As Vaysey had departed on his visit to Prince John the previous day, he had assured Gisborne that the only reason he had not been invited was that he was needed here in Nottingham. To "hold down the fort", Vaysey had said, but Guy knew when he was being mocked. He licked his lips in anticipation. By the time the Sheriff returned, Hood and the Pact would be waiting for him. Guy wondered what "respect" would look like on Vaysey.

He turned to the man who stood in the shadow of a building, waiting for his command.

"Who's the weak link, Allan?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Warning: This chapter contains references to torture.**

**Chapter Six.**

Once Gisborne got started, it took Will less than five minutes to understand what the Brothers of the Passion were getting at. What had seemed like madness in the marketplace that morning suddenly made perfect sense.

Their blood, their pain: it would not save their families from the death that had already claimed them. But that was not the point, he now realised. It didn't matter that the Brothers could not prevent their loved ones from suffering; what mattered was that _they suffered too. _

Because to watch someone you love in the grip of terrible pain that you cannot share is the worst agony of all.

He would have taken every blow for her if it would stop her from feeling them; he had known that even as they dragged her from the dungeon, away from the angry shouts of her three comrades. But a few minutes later they were back for him, and soon he knew that he would gladly take the beating Gisborne had doled out to her, even if it wouldn't change a thing for Djaq. Even if all it meant was that two of them were tied up against a pillar, with blood on their faces and burns on their arms and bruises across their chests, instead of it being Djaq alone... Will would take that option in an instant, rather than sit here without a scratch and watch it all happening.

He had tried to draw Gisborne's attention away from her; hurling every insult he had ever heard or imagined, calling Gisborne the lowest bastard alive, taunting him for hurting a defenceless woman, while inside he thanked God that it hadn't seemed to occur to him, at least so far, to treat her any differently to a man. But every shout was answered with a ringing blow. Not across his face, but Djaq's.

He had kept quiet after that, realising that the only words that would save her were the ones that she implored him with her eyes not to say. Will had drawn his strength to stay silent from those deep brown pools, hoping that somehow, by holding her gaze, he could give her a little more strength to endure Gisborne's cruelty.

But her eyes were closed now. After Gisborne had broken three of her fingers, she had passed out from the pain, and finally Gisborne turned to Will.

"Why are you letting this happen, boy?" he sneered now. "This isn't her fight. Richard isn't her King. Would you have her die to protect him?"

True. It was true. But Robin was her leader, and Djaq was fierce in her loyalty to the man who had freed her from slavery. Will believed she would die before betraying Robin, as he would himself, but he knew he didn't have the strength to let her. The only thing that had kept him silent thus far was the knowledge that if he spoke, he would be betraying her sense of honour as well.

He clenched his fists against the iron shackles that bound them, relishing the sharp pain as cold metal dug into the rough skin of his hands. It was not much, but it helped to block out the searing anguish of seeing Djaq's limp, battered body sagging against the ropes that bound her, her head hanging in a cowed, submissive way that was utterly at odds with the pride and spirit of her waking self. To add insult to injury, she was naked from the waist up. Will had felt her shame and fury as the guards silently leered at her; she was scrupulously modest. The only other time he had glimpsed her bare chest, the sight had been swiftly followed by a stinging pain in his eye and a whirling confusion in his young head. This time, what he felt was far worse than a branch in the face as Gisborne spoke in the low, coiled, dangerous tone that terrified Will far more than any shout.

"A piece of paper, and a King who has never set foot in Nottinghamshire. They are worth more than her life?" Gisborne spoke as if he knew the answer to his own question, and it dawned on Will that it was no coincidence that had brought the two of them to this room. Somehow, Gisborne knew. Guilt-stricken, Will cast his mind back to Jew Lane, to the dungeon, searching for the look, the gesture, the moment in which he had given himself away and sealed Djaq's doom. Fool!

Or what if... His next realisation was even more horrible. _Allan. _This was a new depth of treachery, even from him. Will struggled to grasp the idea that the man he had thought of as a brother could have laid bare his weakness to his enemy. _He wouldn't... _But there was no escaping it: Allan had known how Will felt; Allan had heard his blurted declaration over a year ago. Will hadn't even meant it, then. He'd thought he did, but he had been little more than a boy, invoking an emotion he didn't understand to express his awe for a woman he barely knew. He had learned a lot more about both since then.

_But he wouldn't do that – not to Djaq. _Those awkward revelations had been one of the few no-go areas in Will and Allan's friendship, and so Will had never known exactly how much Allan "liked" Djaq. He tried to tell himself that there was no way that the twisted predicament in which they found themselves could have been Allan's idea, but in truth the workings of his friend's mind had become foreign to Will from the moment he turned traitor.

"Answer me, boy! Where is Hood? Where is the pact?" Gisborne's face inches from his own, Will felt he would choke on the sour stench of wine, hair oil, and an undefinable element that Will decided was the smell of pure evil. He tried to block him out, focusing instead on conjuring up Djaq's eyes in his own head, imagining she was still looking at him, giving him strength.

Djaq's eyes, large and fearful through the bars of a cage. Djaq's eyes blazing with conviction and reflected firelight as she clutched a small brown book. Djaq's eyes intent as she focussed on a difficult wound; Djaq's eyes rolling when one of the men exasperated her, questioning when they confused her, sparkling with humour when they earned themselves a dose of her teasing wit. Djaq's eyes, cutting through the blinding rage that had crushed his chest as he watched his father die.

"Her eyes!" Gisborne snapped, turning away. Will started. "Wake her up!" Gisborne repeated to the man who stood waiting with a bucked of water at the ready. "I'll have her eyes next."

Suddenly the answer was clear. "The camp!" he burst out. "I'll take you to the camp."

Why hadn't he thought of it before? What use was the camp when all its occupants were either locked in the castle, or hundreds of miles away? Robin wouldn't walk into the trap either: when he returned, he would surely know something was wrong when the gang didn't even try to play their usual game of ambushing him.

Gisborne turned back to Will. "Really? I'd like that. How about this: you take me to your camp and if I find Hood or the Pact there, I'll let the Saracen slattern go free. But if I don't find what I'm looking for, then we come straight back here and I let the guards play a little game of Arabian Nights." He paused, a vile smirk flittering across his dark features. "Somehow, I doubt she'll make it to a thousand and one."

"NO!" Will's body lurched so violently that the chair to which he was bound fell to the stone floor with a crash. He lay there like a tortoise turned on its back by a cruel little boy, struggling to right itself.

"I didn't think so," Gisborne remarked. He took his curved dagger from its sheath.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven **

Never before had a man who valued his own skin so highly wished so fervently to hear the whistle of an arrow or a knife flying past his ear.

_Please be here,_ Allan silently begged as he made his way towards the outlaws' camp. Guy had seemed to think that Robin was somewhere in particular, rather than just floating around the forest. Allan hoped he was wrong. True, it wasn't like Robin to miss a market day. He loved to see the gratitude on their hungry faces. _Maybe him and Marian are just having some alone time, _Allan thought hopefully. He redoubled his efforts to draw attention to his approach, breathing even more heavily and crushing every twig his feet could find, to compensate for the fact that Robin might be distracted. After his last visit to Marian, he didn't think Robin would kill him without hearing him out. But interrupt a man in the throes of passion, and who knew what he might do...

Allan grinned, forgetting for a moment that instead of nudging Will in the ribs and sharing the innuendo, he was running to tell Robin that his friend was in Gisborne's clutches, along with the rest of the gang. Oh, and that he wasn't his friend any more. _Right._

A more compassionate employer might have sent him away from the castle to spare him the guilt and distress of watching the people he had betrayed being tortured, but with Guy of Gisborne things were a lot simpler: Allan wasn't necessary to this stage of the operation, and Guy had other work for him to do. There was also a slight chance, Allan acknowledged, that he might have been getting on the boss man's nerves a bit with his efforts to backtrack from what he'd let slip.

"Here, I've got an idea," he'd said, hurrying towards the dungeons in Gisborne's scowling, leatherclad wake. "Simplest form of torture: just don't give Much any food for a day or two. Not being funny, but when he's hungry he'd give his right arm for a leg of pork. You won't even have to break a sweat."

Gisborne hadn't even honoured that with a response. He'd simply ordered Allan to go to his room, collect a letter from his table, and take it to Marian at Ripley. "There will be a reply. You are to wait for it." He'd kept right on walking, not waiting for Allan's assent: Gisborne assumed he would be obeyed.

As Allan crested the ridge that concealed the outlaws' hideaway, he saw instantly that it was empty. Cursing, he descended the hill and aimed a frustrated kick at the hidden door, then cursed louder as bone connected sharply with wood.

"Bloody hell, Will!" he burst out. "What'd you do, search the whole forest for the hardest jiggerin' branches you could find? Stupid bastard!"

_Stupid bastard... stupid bastard... stupid... bastard..._

His words seemed to float back to him on the breeze, and he heard the catch in his own voice. He sank to the ground.

He didn't know how long he sat there; it didn't really matter, for Ripley Convent was far enough away that Gisborne would not be expecting him back before dark.

Damned rude of Marian, he thought, when he had recovered his composure enough to be angry again. Disappearing to God-only-knew-where without a word, and expecting him to jump to it and cover her tail. She must have known Guy would try to contact her again; what on earth did she suppose Allan would do if she vanished? Even as he completed the thought, his slippery mental fingers began to do their work, slithering their way around half a dozen plans to talk his way – and hers, not that she deserved it – out of this dilemma.

Heartened to realise that his touch had not entirely left him, he let his mind drift to the other, bigger problem. He felt solutions take root, pictured the tendrils telescoping outward through the fertile soil of his chancer's brain, only to butt uselessly against the hard bone of his skull. _No, that won't work. That either. _

He hadn't been able to think any further ahead than getting to the camp and warning Robin; he had hoped that from then on, he would know what to do. But Robin wasn't here, and though Allan hoped it was because he was already in Nottingham planning the rescue, he couldn't be so sure. He backed up slowly and caught hold of that one sole thread of his plan: warn Robin. He would leave a message so that Robin would know what had happened. Shame he didn't know how to write; where was Djaq when you needed her, eh?

_In the dungeon. With Gisborne. Being tortured._

Biting his lip, he stood up and found the hidden lever that opened the camp door. He would have to improvise. As the door slowly swung upwards, it felt like any other day that he'd returned with the others from a raid or a food drop. It felt like he was home again.

_Some home,_ he reminded himself bitterly. _Cold and wet and smells like feet, always. Hard little bunk and Much's cooking; Much in general, really. _

He reached for Much's beloved wooden spoon, and laid it carefully on the bare kitchen table. _Much. _He squinted; it looked wrong. It looked like it belonged there. Frowning, he reached for a blanket from the nearest hammock and spread it over the table before replacing the spoon. Now it was obvious that the spoon meant something. Casting his eyes around for inspiration, he spied Will's tools lying in a heap in the corner. He picked up the saw and placed it beside the spoon. The medicine bag Djaq had inherited from Pitts was hanging from a nail in the kitchen. From its depths he pulled a pouch of dried herbs. Now for John. Allan racked his brains to think of how he could represent John. The man was hard to define: big and silent and solid. He was more than just a staff and a beard, but Allan couldn't think just what he was. Finally, he hefted a great rock off the ground and added it to the pile on the table. That seemed right. He was always throwing them, for a start.

That was the outlaws sorted then. Now: Gisborne. Danger. Torture. After a moment's thought, he tore his shirt and laid the scrap of black cloth beside the other objects. He regarded them for a moment, and then grunted in frustration and swept them all off the table. It was a rubbish idea; what had he been thinking? It wouldn't mean a thing to Robin or anyone else. He needed to tell him in person. Where was he?

He scanned the untidy camp, hoping to see something that would give him a clue. Even better, if he found the blasted Pact then Gisbourne would have much less cause to hurt Djaq. Looking first with his eyes and then with his quick thief's hands, he searched the kitchen and common areas, but drew a blank. Unless mouldy onions, dirty socks, and wood shavings bloody everywhere were a hidden code revealing Robin's whereabouts. He moved over to the bunks and hammocks where they slept.

_What, d'you think he's drawn you a picture and left it under his pillow? _

But he was unwilling to leave any stone, or blanket, unturned. Robin's hammock was empty, and he wondered if that was significant. Even the blankets were gone – did that mean he was, indeed, gone for more than just a few hours?

Much probably just nicked them all, he reassured himself, then burst out laughing as he lifted the pile of blankets on Much's bed, to reveal half a loaf of bread obviously secreted there in case of late night emergency.

_I'm sorry I tried to get Gisborne to starve you, mate. Even you don't deserve that._

He continued the search, and his mirth faded as he found in his hand a strip of leather, tapered at each end with thin hide strings to tie it. It was very plain, but with it came the memory of an intricate whorling, curving design that had once peeked out from beneath it, wine red against soft brown skin.

The tattoo had faded over that first summer; henna, she'd called it. He hadn't noticed her ditching the armband, and wondered if the two were connected, and how. Just another piece in the puzzle, he supposed, though he wasn't sure if it was a piece he'd found or just yet another he'd realised was missing. He replaced the band beneath Will's thin straw mattress.

Hesitantly, sadly, he reached up and surveyed his own old bunk. The blankets were missing as well. Did Marian sleep there now, or had she made other arrangements? Absently he slipped his fingers underneath the mattress, and frowned as they connected with something. He drew out a thin wooden tag. The string was still broken where Robin had ripped it from his neck. His chest tight, his fingers closed possessively around it. This was still his bunk, or at least someone thought so.

He had to get them out of there. _Come on, mate. You're Allan-a-Dale. You can squeeze out of any tight corner. You're a legend, you are. Always got a plan, always got an answer. _But this time he was well and truly stuck.

He flinched at the word his mind had chosen, remembering the last time he had used it and the person who had seen right through it. _Please, God. I know we're not exactly on a first name basis, but... _Who was he kidding? He changed the prayer: _please, Will. Be the soft-hearted sap I know you can be when you're not being a moody git. _

That wouldn't be enough, though. All it would do was speed up the moment when Robin would be caught and the gang would be dispensable and the hangman would be tying his knots.

Determined to find an answer, Allan turned to the one remaining pile of clothes and other paraphernalia which lay on the floor.

A short time later, he left the camp with a bundle tucked under his arm.


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning, Sir Martin suggested that while he and Robin made contact with their envoy, Marian might like to visit his daughter Susan at her new home in the village of Otton, some two hours' ride away.

Mindful that the old man meant well, she tried to conceal her irritation at how little impact last night's conversation had made on him. She had told him, surely, how important this fight was to her, yet here he was again, trying to shunt her out of the way on a woman's errand rather than letting her play her part. Marian recalled how worried he had been about her safety, and decided to try to allay his fears rather than fight them.

"Uncle Martin, surely if these people are your friends, there can be no danger in my coming with you?"

His voice was a soft and gentle reproach: "Of course, if you wish it, Marian. In truth it was a selfish request on my part: a father trying to beg some company for his daughter. This last year has been hard on her, and I fear she is often lonely. I know she would love to see a friend."

Marian instantly felt ashamed. _Not everything is about you,_ she reminded herself. She was annoyed to see Robin smirking behind Lord Headingley's back. Amusing as it might be to see her caught in such a faux pas, it was tactless of him – what if Sir Martin turned and saw him smiling about his daughter's sorrows?

"I would love to visit Susan," she said as brightly as she could while attempting to subtly convey her displeasure to Robin, who was, by now, fairly adept at recognising that emotion in her face. The old man beamed broadly.

As Sir Martin's carriage bore her slowly down the country road towards Otton, Marian tried to remember the last news she had heard of Susan. Sir Martin had clearly been reluctant to tell her any more. She had been married to the Earl of Otton not long before Robin had returned from the Holy Land; Marian and her father had travelled to Headingley for the wedding. Since then, word of her had been restricted to the odd sentence in Sir Martin's letters. "Susan came to see me on Saturday last", "Susan sends her love to you both," "Susan has had a bad cold but is recovering well." Marian realised with regret that she had not even wondered if there was more to Susan's life than visits and minor ailments.

When they were younger, Marian and Susan had joked that it was lucky they were both girls: otherwise, their fathers would have been sure to concoct some nonsensical plan of cementing their friendship by marrying their offspring to each other. As it was, the men had to be content with assuming that the two girls, so close in age, would be the best of friends, at least so far as the miles between them allowed.

Oh, Marian liked Susan well enough; she was the sort of person you couldn't help liking. Or rather, she was the sort of person you couldn't _dislike_, any more than you could dislike a puppy or a newborn baby. Trusting, gentle, she was everything a girl in her position was supposed to be. _Everything Marian was not. _While Susan had been sewing her trousseau, Marian had been fashioning a cloak and a beak-nosed mask.

Married, settled, the patroness of a village, perhaps even with children by now: Susan was living the life that Marian had always assumed she would have one day, but that she now had a sinking feeling would never be hers. _You will have your time, _she told herself. _When the King is safe, when England is free, when Robin is pardoned..._

_And horses tell jokes and carrots grow on trees. _Frowning, she stopped herself. _Selfish, again, Marian. _

Besides, if what Uncle Martin said was true, Susan's simple life was not without its troubles.

The young woman seemed carefree enough, however, running out to embrace her friend as she alighted from the carriage.

"Marian! What are you doing here?" She looked much the same as ever; short and pale, with a round face and a freckled nose. Marian thought she had gained a little weight since last she had seen her.

"I came to visit your father, and of course I could not leave without seeing you," Marian explained.

"You are... alone?" Susan's eyes overflowed with sympathy. Neither Lady Headingley nor Lady Fitzwalter had lived to see their daughters leave their teenage years, and now Marian was fatherless as well.

Marian told her a heavily edited version of the tale she had told Sir Martin: suddenly, she felt too tired to deal with the innocent Susan's shock at hearing what Marian's life had become. She told her that Sir Edward had been weak and ill, and had died a few months ago; that she had been taken in by friends near Nottingham, and had come to bring the news to the Headingley family. It was all true, in a way. Sensing her discomfort, although not the reason for it, Susan let the subject drop. Inside the house, she read her father's note in silence, and then began to chatter about village gossip: the harvest festival she was helping to organise, the death of their priest and the wait for a replacement, a shocking brawl that had happened just outside her front door when two stable hands discovered they were both courting the same girl. (The one who had lost the fight had ultimately won the day, the maiden in question finding bruises unaccountably attractive.)

"So," Susan said at length, "Tell me about the friends you are living with. Did I ever meet them when we visited Knighton?" She sounded a little uneasy, and Marian wondered if Sir Martin had mentioned in his letter that he had asked Marian to stay with him.

"I do not think so," Marian replied carefully. "My friend's name is... Alice. She and her husband John have been very good to me." She didn't know quite why she had said that. She had barely known Alice Little, but she remembered John's gruff, sympathetic voice and his comforting hug, and knew that the woman he had loved would have been kind as well.

Thankfully, they were interrupted by the appearance of a dusty-looking little girl at the window.

"Please Mistress, Mam says she's sorry but she can't come today. Little Joseph's poorly and she don't want to leave him. She says I'm to go help Margaret in the kitchen for today."

"No, Nell," Susan replied softly, "Margaret will be fine on her own. You run home and ask your mother if there's anything she needs for the baby, then come back and Margaret will give it to you."

As she turned away, Marian noticed the tears pooled in her pale eyes.

"Susan..." The other girl simply nodded.

"In the spring. He was perfect. So beautiful." Her voice trembled. "He didn't cry. Not even once."

Helpless, Marian crossed to the window and put her arms around the sobbing Susan.

"I'm all right. I'm all right," she repeated through her tears. Pulling away, she seated herself again.

"He took so long to come," she said after a pause. "It was so hard. The midwife kept telling me to push, but it hurt... I wasn't strong enough..."

"Susan, it was not your fault." Marian said firmly. "What did the midwife say?"

"She said it was God's will. But what would God want with a tiny baby like him? I did something wrong." She said it not as an argument or a question, but a plain statement of fact.

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Robin and Headingley's visit to the family of young Peter Courtney was progessing in a rather less emotional way. There were no tears, although the youth's aging father looked a little damp around the eyes as his son agreed, without hesitating, to take word to King Richard.

"It will be dangerous," Robin warned him. "Nobody else in England knows you have it, so you are safe enough for the journey. But once you get to the Holy Land, there are sure to be people watching the King, to see who tries to approach him without apparent reason. You will have to be careful."

The young man nodded staunchly.

"All the same," Sir Martin said, a little nervously, "It would be best if you leave England as soon as possible. There is no need to take unneccessary risks."

As they rode away from the Courtney house, Robin remarked, "That is a good man."

"Little more than a boy, but he will grow into a good man," Sir Martin agreed.

"He is true to his King," added Robin, as though that clinched the matter.

Sir Martin said nothing. He was not so sure that there was such a simple connection between fealty and virtue. Was a faithful subject automatically a good man? Sir Martin thought not. A man could steal and lie and even murder, while still believing staunchly that Richard was God's voice in England and fighting anyone who denied it. A man could be loyal to his sovereign and yet care nothing for a woman's honour; take advantage of a young girl alone in the world; seem to promise marriage without actually promising anything at all. Twist, or even invent, a father's last words to his daughter to convince her to throw away everything he had taught her during his life.

He did not doubt Robin's devotion to the King, but he suspected that was the problem. The younger man thought that the strength of his allegiance, the sacrifices he had made for his cause, put him above the moral codes that bound normal people. Perhaps he felt that someone like him, a warrior for justice, a hero if you will, deserved the rewards of his choosing.

He cleared his throat.

"Robin, let her stay with me."

Robin's silence, his sudden stillness, told Sir Martin that he knew exactly what he was talking about. Had Marian told him of their conversation? They had not been alone since he had left her room; or had they? If so, things were worse than he had thought.

"Marian's a grown woman. She can make her own choices." He sounded like a sulky little boy, threatened with the loss of his favourite toy.

_But are they her choices, Locksley, or yours?_ Sir Martin wondered.

"How many times have you been wounded? Threatened? Pursued? How can you promise me that she will be safe? How can I let her live that life, when I promised her father that I would protect her?"

"She's been wounded and threatened and pursued plenty of times without any contribution from me." Robin struggled to keep his voice free from his anger at the injustice of it all. "Believe me, I want nothing more than to keep her safe, but I cannot keep her tied up all her life." _Just that one time_, he thought with an involuntary smile, _and I paid the price for that!._

"Robin, if you are a man of honour, here is your chance to prove it. She is with my daughter; you can be gone before she comes back. I will explain to her, tell her we agreed it is for the best. When .. if... your title and lands are restored, I will be more than happy to grant you permission to court Marian."

_Take it,_ he pleaded. _Take the chance I offer. Go now. England needs men like you, even if Edward's daughter would be far better off without you. _

"I am a man of honour, Sir Martin," Robin said in low, level tones. "And I _honour_ Marian's right to choose her own path in life."

Honour. A word of so many meanings; different for men and women, for nobles and thieves; but trouble for them all.

* * *

**Author's note: I know, I know. All this drama going on in Nottingham and I make you sit through 2000-odd words of Robin and Marian talking to people. I'm sorry. There was a point, I promise.**

**Next chapter should be up soon, and we'll see what's happening to the gang back in Sherwood. And whether Djaq still can. See. Till next time! xx B.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Djaq's dreams often had no pictures, only sounds and smells and darkness. It was a legacy of her girlhood habit of squeezing her eyes tight shut to savour precious moments: the spice and buzz of the bazaar; a gentle voice singing and the scent of her mother's hair; the indefinable change in the air that told her it was about to rain. Such sweet, simple dreams. Then there was the one that still started her awake, some nights in the forest: the darkness, the clashing of swords, and the metallic taste of fear.

She had abandoned the practice after that day, discarding it along with a pile of veils and a long tail of dark hair: it had been Safiyah's childish luxury, but Djaq needed to keep her eyes open. Still, the visionless dreams were a part of her past that remained with her.

She had never dreamed of this smell before. Smoke and sweat and something else she could not define. It was a familiar smell, although she thought, in the absent way one thinks in dreams, that it had never been so close, so enveloping. It was neither pleasant nor unpleasant, but she found it oddly comforting.

There was another smell as well, one that made Djaq's mouth water. _Chicken,_ the word drifted across her mind. Roast chicken; real chicken, not Much-chicken. As if conjured by the thought of his name, a voice came to her through the darkness.

"Oh God, I'm so hungry!"

Even in her dreams, some things never changed...

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The Nightwatchman had something of a reputation amongst the people of Nottingham and the guards whose job it was to keep them downtrodden. Rumour had it that he was not human at all: the amazing fluidity with which he moved and leapt and fought had led some to whisper that he had been forged (by either God or the devil, depending on your point of view) out of molten metal. If he was wounded - but surely he could never be wounded – silver, not blood, would flow from his veins.

Tonight, though, the Nightwatchman was on less spectacular form. Tonight the Nightwatchman was cobbled together from stealth and necessity, his origins neither diabolical nor divine. He skulked in doorways, dodging from one patch of shadow to the next. An observer would have thought that perhaps, tonight, he was feeling a little less confident about his ability to battle hordes of the Sheriff's men and win.

All was well until he reached the guard post halfway along the east wall. The two soldiers on duty were whiling away the late watch by discussing just what horrible thing it was that Jewish men did to themselves to signify their faith.

"I'm telling you, they cut it off!"

"Don't be daft. Where d'you think little Jews come from then? And what do they do when they need to 'ave a piss? Speaking o' which..."

The guard turned at just the wrong time. If he'd been in any position to comment, afterwards, he might have been a little piqued at being treated to a much less dignified and exciting defeat than most of the Nightwatchman's victims. No flying kicks or breathtaking backflips for him, just a knife in the belly like any poor drunkard who's stumbled down the wrong alley. His companion was luckier, their nemesis sparing his life if not his ego; he slumped to the floor with a blow to the temple that would live to be embellished over an ale or twelve in the guardroom.

The Nightwatchman shook the sweat from beneath his mask and hurried on.

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"I mean, honestly, would it kill them to take their little picnic outside?" Much continued indignantly. "I haven't eaten a thing since breakfast, and there they are just gorging away without so much as throwing us a crust! It's just... barbaric!"

"Much. We have bigger problems than your stomach," John growled from the adjacent cell.

"Do you think I don't know that?" Much retorted, his voice steadily increasing in pitch as he went on. "But right now being hungry seems like the best thing to focus on. At least I'm used to being hungry! I am not used to being trapped in a dungeon, with the only person who can rescue us hundreds of miles away, and Gisborne and his goons rushing off to capture him, and Djaq lying there... Djaq lying there..." He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

Silently, the other two men agreed that he had a point. This was not good. The feast the guards were tucking into had been brought down by a young kitchen maid, who explained that Sir Guy had been called away on urgent business without touching the dinner that had been prepared for him.

"_Your lucky night, boys."_

It didn't take a genius to guess what that business might be, or that the guards' good fortune was ill luck for Robin and his men.

As Much stumbled over her name, Djaq slowly lifted her heavy eyelids, wincing as her lashes snagged against a crust of dried blood from the wounds on her forehead.

She blinked, twice. Gisborne must have hit her head harder than she remembered, and she was hallucinating. First the tantalising smell of the chicken – in a dungeon, of all places – and now Will was sitting there without his shirt.

Her weary mind turned over the conundrum. Pale skin. Long, lean torso, even when he sat hunched over like that. So thin that it made her ache, although _that_ could have been Gisborne's doing. Tension tightening every muscle of his chest and back and shoulders.

As she shifted slightly to allow her eyes to follow the line of energy that flowed up his body and out through the curve of his neck, a jolt of pain informed her that this was no mirage. In the same instant, the feeling of rough cloth on her tender chest made sense of both the sight before her and the still-present, undefinable scent, as she realised that Will's shirt was draped over her.

_Ever the gentleman, Will Scarlett..._

Oblivious to her awakening, the gentleman in question was staring fixedly through the bars of the cell they shared. He was grateful for the guards' lack of initiative: in the absence of specific instructions, they had reverted to their usual practice and thrown him and Djaq in together and unbound. He had tried to make her as comfortable as possible, covering her with his shirt and folding his scarf beneath her head, but there was not even any water to clean the blood from her face. His instinct was to hold her hand or stroke her cheek, but almost every visible inch of skin bore some livid mark of the pain he had failed to save her from, and so, fearing to make it worse, he had retreated to the edge of the cell, pausing only to retrieve the knife.

The guards had stripped their weapons off them when they were first brought in, but they been complacent when searching the woman, failing to check inside her boots. Will knew it was there – she was always at the edge of his peripheral vision in any fight – and now it was clasped behind his back. The guards were out of range right now, but his chance would come. The patient, rational craftsman within him was considering how he could use the knife to win their escape, but was rapidly losing ground to the dark revel of fury brawling in his veins. Mostly, Will just wanted to kill Gisborne; and since he was on his way to Headingley on Robin's trail by now, any of his men would serve to die in his place.

"She's moving! She's awake! Djaq, are you all right?" Much's announcement dragged him back from the dark, angry world that had claimed him to the equally dark, fearful world of reality.

"Never better," Djaq muttered sarcastically, ending each word with the rolling r that always made Will's own tongue curl, as if he could taste her voice in his mouth. He scrambled across the few feet of stone that separated them, his face echoing Much's concern, though he scorned to repeat his stupid question.

"I do not think anything is broken," she said, gingerly feeling her ribs with her good hand, "except these." She held up her other hand, the fingers a crushed mess of darkening bruises. She slowly sat up, clutching Will's shirt against her chest, and let out a faint gasp at the accidental pressure against one of her burns.

"If I cut the sleeves off, you could put it on and it wouldn't touch your arms," he suggested. "They... they didn't give yours back." He turned his head away and held out his hand for the shirt. Djaq did not comment on the knife he used to slash the seams. As she shrugged the armless tunic over her head, he quietly confessed, "I told him about Headingley. I had to."

She sighed; she had guessed as much from the simple fact that she had woken up of her own accord, rather than to the hissing agony of another burning poker, or the stinking, crushing weight of a castle guard. She didn't ask exactly what Gisborne had threatened, not wanting to take her mind back to that room that had already left its groaning legacy on her body. Even while she was conscious, his hectoring words had been far-off, distorted, like voices heard underwater. She had ducked beneath the cool surface of the river and waited for the inferno of pain to pass.

It was just as well that it had, leaving only smouldering embers that she could endure on her own, for this time Will's blue-green eyes would not meet hers, instead staring miserably at the floor.

"Robin is not due back for over a week," she said as consolingly as she could, given the bleakness of her words. "There is no way we could have held out that long."

He knew she was right; they would all have succumbed long before Robin had a chance to rescue them. But it would have been to death, not betrayal, were it not for Gisborne's twisted master-stroke. Will had had no real choice - _her eyes, the guards, the dagger, her eyes_ - and yet his choice had condemned Robin and Marian to die with them.

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The Nightwatchman paused outside the door that led down to the dungeons. Until now, he had managed to avoid raising the alarm, but this was where it ended. Once he opened that door, he would be out in the open, breaking cover; breaking too a lifetime habit of subterfuge and sleight of hand. There was a good chance the thin borrowed mask would fail him, and tonight's activity was a little too unambiguous to cover with his usual armoury of bravado, half-truths and just-plain-lies.

_You could still walk away. They all hate you; you don't owe them anything. You were in that dungeon and nobody came to save you. You tried to tell Robin. You did all you could. It's out of your hands._

The excuses came thick and fast, with all the facility of a mind well used to rationalising the path of least resistance. Even as his hand flicked to the little wooden scrap of reclaimed fellowship in his pocket, the bitter voice found a way to cheapen it.

_For all you know, that's been there since the day you left. Doesn't mean they still want you back. You've gone a lot further since then. _

As he felt his will fading, he reached desperately for the last and strongest talisman against his own weakness: the one he had never yet called on for fear of tainting it with his doubts, not wanting to pit that lone voice that had said he was a good man against the chorus in his head that knew otherwise.

He held the memory of that moment before him like a shield, and hurriedly, before it could slip or buckle, pushed open the door and ran down the dungeon steps. Reaching the bottom, he almost swore aloud in his surprise. He had been expecting the usual crabbed, bent jailer, not half a dozen guards. Gisborne must have assigned extra men to cover the special prisoners.

Of course, that was unlikely to be a problem, since the guards were sprawled, half-naked and snoring, on the dungeon floor. Behind them, the cells stood open and deserted.

* * *

**Author's note: I had originally planned to have Allan-as-Nightwatchman bust the gang out, but then 2.11 aired here a few weeks ago and I realised that would sort of ruin his big moment in that episode! So I decided to let him have a dress rehearsal instead, and luckily there were still several chapters for me to set up Escape Plan B, which will be revealed in the next update. **

**Since Allan's outlaw tags have made another reappearance here, I must take a moment to recommend a brilliant new oneshot by Harlett called Betrayal which, as well as being a beautiful exploration of the immediate aftermath of Allan's expulsion from the gang, also suggests one way in which the tags might have ended up** **where he found them in Chapter 7 of this story. **

**I should be updating this story more quickly from now on, since I've got a few relatively quiet weeks at uni before exams start. Thanks as always to my lovely readers and reviewers - I so love hearing your thoughts!**

**:) xx B.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Elsewhere in the castle, five figures hurried along a darkened corridor.

"Are you sure you won't get in trouble for helping us, Sarah?" John asked, not for the first time.

"Not unless I'm caught with you," she assured him. "Good food and wine going to waste, there's no rule that says we can't give it to the guards. Mind you, the other girls thought I was mad wanting to send it down there when half of us have got hungry kids at home. Now they think I'm sweet on one of 'em..."

_Not flipping likely, _she thought _Nasty pieces of work, the lot of them_. That big one, Micah, he was the worst. As she'd taken the keys from his belt, she'd accidentally trodden on his sweaty great hand. Maybe that would teach him to keep it to himself.

"Anyway," she told the man who now wore his uniform but was his polar opposite in so many ways, "if they want to get soused on the job, that's their lookout."

"But how did they get so drunk so quickly?" Much demanded. "There can't have been that much wine – Gisborne is only one man, even if he is an utter swine!"

"Ah, it was the sleeping draught Djaq gave me for Jess when she had the whooping cough last winter," Sarah explained. "I was worried there wouldn't be enough left, but..."

"But mixed with the alcohol, it would be stronger," Djaq cut in brusquely. Even through the satisfaction that she always derived from solving a puzzle, the pain was evident in her voice as she dragged herself along, hunching protectively over her bruised midsection. Her companions exchanged glances over her head.

"Djaq, will you just let John-" Worry made Will's voice harsher than he intended, but she seemed not to notice.

"I am fine. And that would be sure to look suspicious if anyone saw us."

"It would be a lot faster, though," Much said reasonably, then wanted to kick himself, as instead of changing Djaq's mind his words simply caused her to increase her pace, a purposeful grimace on her dark face.

"We can't let them see you _anyway_," Will pointed out. The attempt to disguise Djaq had been abandoned, the weight of the chain-mail unbearable against her injuries. If they were intercepted, they would have to either hide her, bluff or fight their way out. But it was beginning to seem that that would not be necessary: even for this time of night, the castle was quieter than they had ever seen it. With every empty corridor they passed, a tiny weight lifted from Will's shoulders as they came one step closer to escaping – and was swiftly replaced by an even heavier burden, as he realised why it was all so easy, and what that meant for Robin and Marian.

"Will you be all right from here? I should be getting back to the kitchen, there's washing up to be done," Sarah said apologetically.

"Yes, go before you're missed," Will told her. "Sarah – thank you. Really, we -"

"No more of that, Will Scarlett. What's one less meal for the kiddies? You lot are a good investment!"

He wasn't thanking her for the sacrifice of food, but for the risk she had taken, and he suspected she knew that. More than anything, he was grateful for the chance she had given him to make right what he had done.

"Say hello to Jess," John said quietly, and she replied, "I'll do that," before vanishing into the grey-walled darkness.

Just in time, as the sound of boots on stone warned them that someone was approaching. John gestured towards an archway that was not big enough to hide them all, and Will shepherded Djaq into its shadow as a guard sergeant rounded the corner.

"Where are you two off to?" he barked.

"Just coming off duty in the dungeons, sir," Much replied, clearing his throat as if trying to inject an uncharacteristic machismo into his voice.

"Well, get around to the east wall. There's been trouble – one man out cold and t'other slit like a pig, poor sod. Take the watch until I can find someone else to cover." Much opened his mouth but the sergeant cut him off, "No arguments. We're short tonight as it is, what with Gisbourne haring off with half the force."

_Half the force. _In his hiding place, pressed up against Djaq in the darkness, Will was assaulted by images of every fight or scam or narrow escape in the gang's history, every castle guard they'd ever fought or tricked or outrun. His head felt as if it would burst from the sheer weight of the faceless horde assembling within it, as even men he had seen die, men that he himself had killed, arose from their graves to join the army that he had sent after his friend and leader.

Neither he nor Djaq dared breathe as the sergeant passed, and turned the next corner, out of sight. The other two doubled back to meet them, and they reached the stables without further incident and saddled the horses that were about to be requisitioned to the cause.

John had fallen into the role of leader without any protest from Much. "They've a good start on us, but it's a long ride, so we've a hope of catching up. Will, you get Djaq back to camp-"

"No. I'm coming to help Robin."

The younger man's voice was quiet, but there was no arguing with the set of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils, or his eyes, flashing with something between determination and desperation. John understood. Will needed to try and rescue Robin from the danger for which he blamed himself. He grunted his assent. "Fine. You're with me. Much, you're with-"

"But Robin!" Much protested.

"_Djaq," _the big woodsman growled, recalling everyone's attention to their injured comrade, now swaying slightly on her feet.

Resolution wavering, Will opened his mouth, but then closed it abruptly with a tiny shake of his head, as a sobered Much nodded and agreed. "Yes. Yes, of course."

Three horses left Nottingham in the dead of night; one heading into the forest, and two galloping south as though the devil were after them, although it might have been fairer to say they were after the devil.

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"All right. This is how it goes..."

For the second time that night, Djaq wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her. It was late; the ride back to camp had been tiring, and then there had been the drawn-out business of tending to her wounds. Much had followed her instructions to prepare the ointments and pastes for burns and bruises, and helped her apply them to the places she could not reach herself, his relief all too evident when she told him she could manage the parts underneath her shirt. Surely, after all the exhaustion of that endless day and night, he could not be proposing another hijack rehearsal now?

It turned out he wasn't. "This is how it goes," he repeated. "You do not move from that spot. If you are hungry, you tell me. If you are thirsty, you tell me. If you are cold, you tell me. If you are too warm, you tell me. If..." he paused, trying to think of more items to add to his list. "Well, if you need anything, you tell me and you stay put. And before you start," he went on belligerently, "this has nothing to do with you being a woman!"

"I know, Much." She smiled. Nobody who had seen him fussing over Robin could think that Much's protectiveness was motivated by gender. She knew, too, that at least half of this was really about Robin, as Much channelled his nervous energy into taking care of her.

"Thank you," she added as he took a loaf of bread from the camp kitchen and began toasting it over the fire he had lit, muttering under his breath about whatever idiot had left a ruddy great rock hidden under a blanket for him to stub his toe against. She said thank you, but mostly she meant, _I'm sorry_. _I'm sorry that you are stuck here with me instead of going to save him._ It was hard enough for her to sit around the camp while Robin and Marian, Will and John were all in such danger, or riding towards it, but she knew she would be no use in her current state. How much worse must it be for Much, who was fit and well?

"It's for the best," he sighed, and she wondered whether she had understood her, or if his own thoughts merely echoed hers. "They're more useful in a rescue. I mean, John is stronger than me, and Will is cleverer." His tone was a quiet, sad contrast to his usual garrulous bluster.

"Nobody is braver or more loyal to Robin," she said gently. A bashful smile appeared on his face. It was nice to have somebody notice. They sat in companionable silence as the stale bread slowly crispened and browned.

"There are limits," Much remarked after a long pause. "I couldn't have done it either. Let Gisborne take your eyes," he explained, finally naming the price that had been too high for Will to pay. He added hurriedly, "At least, not if I had to watch, I mean..."

For most people, in most places, in most times throughout history, it would go without saying that you did not let your friends be blinded if you could prevent it, but on this night, in this forest, it meant a great deal.

"Hey!" Much protested as his culinary activities were suddenly hampered by the delicate hug of two sore, bandaged arms. "I said no moving!"

"Yes, Much," she said meekly, the corners of her mouth curling upwards as she settled back into her seat. They ate quietly, both their thoughts many miles to the south.

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Supper at Headingley Manor had been equally quiet, but rather less friendly. The uncomfortable silence of the ride home had deepened as the evening drew out without an appearance from Marian. Robin could not understand how Sir Martin, who had seemed so agitated about her safety, could be so calm now.

He laid his fork on the table, somehow managing to make the silent gesture reverberate through the dining room.

"I'm going to look for her."

"I tell you there is no need," Sir Martin replied coolly. "I am sure she simply lost track of the time, and now she has probably decided to spend the night at Otton." He hoped so; hoped that his daughter had accomplished the task his brief note had set her.

_My dear,_

_I apologise for failing you today, but as you see I send an old friend in my stead, whose company I trust will please you more than yet another visit from your dull old Father._

_Daughter, Marian is in trouble, although she in her innocence does not know it. I hope to help her, and I know that you will be anxious to do anything you can to assist in your friend's deliverance. I ask only that you keep her at Otton as long as you can; press her to stay overnight, if at all possible. _

_By the time she returns to Headingley, the snares that now threaten her will be cleared from her path if this can be achieved through any labour of_

_Your affectionate Papa._

"You don't know that!" Robin argued. "The carriage could have had an accident. Anything could have happened! I am going to make sure she is all right."

"Young man, by the time you reach Otton it will be after midnight. You cannot disturb them at this hour!"

Robin struggled to calm himself. Marian loved this overbearing old windbag, and so he needed to resist antagonising him further. "I will not disturb anyone," he promised. "I will ride to Otton. If your carriage is still there, I will turn around and come straight back. But I have to know she is safe."

Young eyes met old, and Robin thought he finally glimpsed a flash of understanding, of recognition, before Sir Martin's gaze fell to the table.

"I cannot stop you," he said finally. "Try not to wake my servants when you return."

As Robin prepared to leave, his host sat in silent reflection, Locksley's apparent devotion to Marian's welfare raising doubts that had thus far skulked in the shadows of his mind. It was not too late. He could make him leave, order him from the house. Tell him that if he went now, he was not welcome to return. By dawn, he would be far away and safe.

But he would take her with him.

Sir Martin shook his head. He had offered the boy a chance to do the decent thing, and he had refused. Robin would not willingly relinquish Marian; and after all, what was he really doing now, but riding to her in the middle of the night against all the dictates of decorum and propriety? As the sound of hoofbeats receded, the old man raised the goblet in front of him and took a deep sip of the rich red wine.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Robin really had intended to keep his word: ride to Otton, check the carriage, ride straight back. But now, his longing to be assured of Marian's safety assuaged, another very different yearning took its place. He would let fate choose, he told himself. What harm in climbing that tempting apple tree, and seeing whose chamber lay behind its branches?

Marian woke to a gentle tapping on her window. As she crossed the room to open it, her hair tumbling over the shoulders of her borrowed nightshift, Robin knew why he had been unable to resist waking her: she looked beautiful at rest, but even more so when she had just woken up, a fact that her residence in the forest was giving him more and more chances to appreciate. Much had commented just the other day on the recent changes in his master's sleeping habits. Usually something of a slugabed on days when there was no pressing reason to get up, Robin had lately taken to assisting Will with his early-morning task of building up the fire. Those fleeting moments of tousled hair, sleepy eyes and husky voice were too precious to risk sleeping through.

"Robin, why -"

"God's will, my love," he whispered through a cheeky smile. "If He didn't want me to visit you, He wouldn't always plant trees outside your bedroom windows."

Unsatisfied by this explanation, she wriggled away from his embrace, her tone urgent and worried. "I mean, why are you here at all? Is something wrong?"

"No, no," he reassured her. "I was just worried when you didn't come back."

"I'm sorry." Her face softened, and Robin reached out to pull her back towards him. "Susan begged me to stay, and I didn't know how to refuse. It has been... a rather emotional day." She was about to relate the tragic story, but checked herself. A pampered young woman's grief and guilt – what was that to a man like Robin, who lived life on a larger scale, fighting the poverty that stalked the poor and the treachery that threatened the Kingdom? Instead, she asked about his day's work.

"The boy agreed," he said. "Not even a second thought. Which pleased Sir Martin no end, because it gave him more time to read me a sermon about you."

"He's serious about this, isn't he?" She gave a sigh that Robin knew well – fond but exasperated.

He thought how strange it was to hear it applied to someone other than himself.

"I'd say so. He tried to convince me to ride off and leave you here where you'd be safe."

Marian stiffened with indignation. "What? Does he really think I am incapable of saddling a horse and finding my own way back to Sherwood?"

"I don't know if he doubts your ability, so much as your inclination. He thinks if I were out of the picture you'd be happy to sit by the fire and sew." He grinned, shifting his hand from her cheek to the nape of her neck. "He doesn't know you like I do."

"I should hope not," Marian replied with a raise of her eyebrow as Robin's touch moved forward and down across her shoulder, inching ever closer to the nightgown's lace neckline. She moved her own hand up to intercept him, interlacing her fingers with his. "I will not let him keep me here," she said, quietly but firmly, her words at once a declaration of war and a plea for alliance.

"And nor will I." Robin answered her unspoken doubts. "I have left you behind once before, and I will not make that mistake again." _Now, _he thought. _Now is the perfect time to say it, to ask her. _But once again, he could not form those few serious words that would end forever all fears of separation.

He wished he had, at least, some token or trinket to give her; Sir Martin's interference had given him a sudden need for some tangible sign that she was his. But his pocket was empty save for a tightly rolled piece of parchment.

A sudden thought struck him, and he withdrew his hands from hers.

"Here," he said, proffering the traitors' charter. "Take this."

"What? What are you-"

"We both know how important this is. It is the key to saving Richard's throne; it is the proof of the Black Knights' treachery. I need it. So you take it. That way we both know that whatever happens, I am not leaving you, and you are not leaving me." His voice was almost angry, and Marian didn't understand why, but she sensed how important this strange gesture was to him. She took the Pact, crossed the room and tucked it into the pocket of her cloak, then shook its folds around her shoulders and tied the strings.

"I will keep it close," she promised.

"And I will keep you close," he answered. It was still wrong, back to front somehow; it was like swearing his love for her on his devotion to the King, when in fact the one far surpassed the other. But for now, it was the best he could do.

"See you tomorrow," he said, kissing her softly as he took his leave and swung himself down the apple tree.

He felt lighter, more at ease as he rode back to Headingley. It had not been enough, but it had been something; he had managed to speak serious words in a serious tone. _Look on it as a rehearsal, _he told himself. Lost in the warm glow of a triumph that grew more significant in his own mind with every mile, he forgot Sir Martin's request for quiet, and was still whistling jauntily as he let himself into the house.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Guy waited until Robin had barred the door behind him and taken three bouncing steps towards the staircase, before he spoke from its shadow. "I hope she was worth it, Hood. She'll be your last."

The outlaw's reaction was ample reward for the time spent awaiting his return. Satisfying as it would have been to catch Hood with his **t**rousers down, Guy had been unable to learn the name of the village lass who had taken his fancy, or where she lived. Headingley had pleaded ignorance, and after testing his veracity with a few backhands to the face, Guy was inclined to believe him; it was hardly to be expected that a Lord would take note of every light-skirted serf on his estate. So, deprived of the chance to visit the ultimate humiliation on his enemy, Guy was gratified to see the stricken look that replaced Hood's cocky expression for a brief moment before he recovered his composure and reached for his sword.

That split second of shocked hesitation was his undoing, time enough for Guy's men to step out from the darkened room behind him. As one soldier, then another, fell to Hood's blade, Guy watched calmly, confident that the rest would overpower him. Sure enough, they were soon binding his hands behind his back, which somewhat diminished the effect of the threat he spat at Guy. "If you touch her, Gisbourne, I swear you'll pay. A real man wouldn't punish her for choosing me over you!"

As he struggled against the men holding him, Robin caught a glimpse of Gisbourne's face through the malodorous frame of a guard's armpit, and was surprised to see neither anger nor pain, as he had expected, but the tight-lipped frown that usually meant Gisbourne was attempting to think. Well, Robin thought scornfully, giving him a headache wasn't a bad start.

_No! Fool! _So ingrained was his hatred of Gisbourne that antagonising him was almost a reflex, as natural and automatic as putting an arrow to his bow and firing, but this was one occasion when more was at stake than the thrill of hitting his target. As he was dragged into the parlour, he saw Sir Martin, in his nightshirt, bound and gagged against a wall and shaking his head in a frantic way that in other circumstances would have been funny in such a large, dignified old man. _I know, _Robin mouthed ruefully. Gisbourne knew about Marian, and Robin could not protect her; making Gisbourne angry was not a clever move.

As his nemesis strode into the room, Robin turned to face him, forcing himself to control the air of contemptuous superiority that was both his instinctive reaction to Gisbourne, and the simplest way to get a rise out of him. He assumed a humility he could not feel toward the base, bullying traitor before him. "Leave her alone," he said simply. "She has nothing to do with this."

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Sir Martin, still desperately waggling his head. _What? What is it?_

"Save your gallantry, Hood," Gisbourne snapped. "I have no interest in your peasant slut."

_What?_

"And don't flatter yourself that I'm jealous. Hearts and minds are your business, remember? And there's plenty of bodies to go around," Gisbourne added with a leer.

He didn't know about Marian. Robin covered his relief with unfeigned revulsion. "Willing or not," he said with a derisive snort.

Gisbourne ignored him, or pretended to. "Get the Pact," he ordered.

After a none-too-gentle search of Robin's pockets, clothes and boots, a guard reported, "It's not on him, Sir."

"Where is it, Hood?"

It was almost amusingly predictable, Robin decided, the way Gisbourne asked a question he must know would not be answered. It was simply the way it worked in his world: you asked first, then when you were refused, you upped the ante with a fist to the face – _oof! Like that! _- and kept going until you got what you wanted, or your victim died.

"It's not here. It's hidden in Sherwood Forest." For the first time, Robin was grateful for the cowardice that had made him give Marian the Pact instead of asking for her hand. If he could just get Gisbourne away from Headingley before she returned in the morning, then the two most important treasures in his keeping would be safe, even if he were to hang. And if he could lure him into the forest, into the gang's path...

The gang. The realisation hit him a split second before Gisbourne's second blow. Only they knew he had come here. How had Gisbourne found him?

He didn't have to wait for an answer. "Don't lie to me," Gisbourne snarled. "If it was in Sherwood, your boy would have handed it over in five minutes to save the Saracen witch."

"What have you done with Djaq and Will?" Robin demanded, his eyes narrow slits from the impact of Gisbourne's punches as much as his words.

"Oh, don't worry. Nothing that will prevent them walking to the gallows along with the two of you." As Gisbourne finished his sentence with a savage smirk, Sir Martin began to shake his head again; not silently this time, but with a torrent of agitated grunts that were muffled by the rags stuffed into his mouth. Guy answered without even looking at him. "Silence, old man! _If_ the Prince's men arrive, _then _I will believe you sent for them; until then, you are a traitor in the eyes of the law."

Robin stared in disbelief at his host, who in turn was gazing ashen-faced at the floor. Gisbourne detailed men to search the house and outbuildings, then turned his menacing attention back to Robin. "We've had a long ride, Hood. The longer my men have to search, the less pleased I will be."

Guy stood, still and expectant, letting the tension build. The room was silent except for the crackling of the fire and the bickering of the guards filtering in through the window as they dispersed across the Manor.

"The bloody stables! Nobody'd hide important papers in amongst horse-shite!"

"You stand me an ale when we get back, and I'll take the stables."

"No, hold out, Michael – 'e'll do it without the ale just to get out o' searchin' the roof. Scared of heights, 'e is!"

"Am not!"

Robin had no strategy or tactic to keep himself silent as Gisbourne's vicious left-hook ploughed into his face again. He needed none, for speaking was simply not an option. He would die before seeing the Pact returned to the Black Knights – and he would die ten times over before betraying the woman who now kept it in her pocket.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"You're finished anyway, Hood. We both know it. But give me the Pact and I'll let one of your men go free. You choose which."

Half an hour later, Guy was resting his fists and giving his tongue a turn. Not that his fists had been working overly hard: normally his aim was to break his victim as swiftly as possible, but he did not honestly expect Hood, with his mulish devotion to Richard, to divulge the charter's location, nor did he need him to. His guards would find it if they had to take the house apart stone by stone, then the village, and the county if need be – but Guy doubted that would be necessary; Hood was too arrogant to trust such an important document far from his sight. So this was simply a diversion while he waited for it to be found, and Guy was enjoying taking his time with the man he loathed more than any other, pausing every now and then to speak or take a sip of the wine he had ordered from Headingley's kitchen, so that the outlaw never knew when or where the next blow would fall.

Robin stared defiantly back at him as he continued in his most mocking, insinuating tones. "The woman, perhaps. After all, you were very keen to protect your wench in the village. Or does your chivalry only extend to English flesh?"

With a curl of his split and bloodied lip, Robin answered, "If you were capable of seeing a woman as more than _flesh_, Gisbourne, you would realise that chivalry is not always welcome."

"Or the boy. He could live to be a man." They both knew it was not a genuine offer, because they both knew that it would not be accepted. "Be a shame for him to die before he could even raise a decent stubble to scrape from his chin."

Robin shrugged. "That shame is on your conscience, not mine."

"What about your servant – Much? After all his loyalty, doesn't he deserve a reward?"

"Oh, you'd know all about loyal servants!" Robin said sarcastically. "With a filthy turncoat for your right-hand man."

"I know more than you!" Guy retorted grimly. "I repay good service with more than just fine words, and it shows." The triumphant thought that he knew more about _earning_ loyalty than Hood ever would was mixed with the bitter knowledge that Hood had never needed to earn anything in his life.

The battle of wills and words was interrupted by a guard speaking from the door. "Sir, in the stables. I think we've found it."

"Give it to me." Guy held out his hand for his prize, but the young man shook his helmeted head.

"It's... you should come, Sir," he stuttered. "It's weird, this. We can't get it out - the others said I should get you so's we don't get the blame for tearing it or nothing."

Guy bristled with irritation; it often seemed at least half his men were incompetent, and it was just his luck that this one was unintelligible as well. His anger was only tempered by the pleasant sight of Hood's eyes, widening with shock as he realised that his hiding-place had been rumbled. "Speak clearly, you fool. Where is it?" he barked.

"Nice way of inspiring loyalty, Gisbourne." Hood had recovered quickly, and his hubris made Gisbourne's blood boil. Even when the game was up, he still could not resist the chance to score a point.

"I... It's stuck, Sir. You ought to look," the young halfwit repeated.

Guy was sorely tempted to send him back to the stables with orders to retrieve the Pact undamaged or face the Sergeant's horsewhip, but he knew that if that piece of parchment was damaged on his watch he would face a far worse lashing from Vaysey's tongue. Threats could make insolent men respectful, lazy men diligent, or cowardly men brave, but no amount of harrying could cure a fool of his idiocy. Better to go himself.

He gestured to the two guards who had been in the room all along, arrows trained on Hood. "Watch him."

He followed the guard around the back of the house, through a rain of dried straw falling from the roof as the men up there made hay of the thatching in their search. The raucous laughter coming from the storehouse suggested that the guards assigned to it had been making free with the wine. Gisbourne frowned; he would deal with them once the Pact was retrieved.

As they entered the stables, he had just enough time to register the three motionless guards heaped in an empty stall, before a huge figure stepped out from beside the door.

"That's for Djaq." John lowered his staff as Gisbourne slumped to the ground. "And that's _all,_" he said firmly, looking at Will as if daring him to forget the brief but serious talk they had had on the ride from Nottingham, on the subject of rescue and revenge and which of those concepts had a place in this mission.

The young man's eyes flicked to the unconscious body as John tied him up with rope from the tack-room. The headache he would have when he awoke was far, far less than he deserved. Will wondered if he would appreciate how lucky he was to have been knocked out with a single blow, rather than slowly forced into oblivion by a rising tide of cruelty and pain.

"Will?" John's voice reminded Will of the only thing controlling his fury at what Gisbourne had done to Djaq: the urgent business of undoing what he himself had done to end her suffering.

"Robin and the old man are tied up in the front room, but I didn't see Marian anywhere," he relayed. "If we get them out without raising the alarm, they might know where she's being held."

Remembering the dull thud he had heard as Djaq's limp form was flung into the dungeons, John dropped Gisbourne, none too gently, alongside the guards who had been relieved of their duties by a dose of the outlaws' own special brand of sleeping-draught, the type that worked instantly and left bruises. Will derived a certain satisfaction from the fact that the stall had not been mucked out for some time, and their enemy's head was resting on a large clump of horse manure. Together they crossed the kitchen garden, skirted the house and returned to the parlour.

"Sir Guy wants the prisoners in the stable. We're to take them," John said with authority.

"We'll cover you in case 'e makes a break for it," the shorter of the two archers replied. "Sir Guy'll have all our 'eads if he escapes."

"Thanks lads. Decent of you," said Will, smiling casually. Knocking them out in the stable would arouse less suspicion than acting possessive about the captives now. As he grabbed Robin by the shoulders, he heard him grunt a single syllable under his breath. He obeyed, scooping the man's beloved recurve bow up from the floor where it lay.

"What's that for then?" Distracted, the guard lowered his own bow, frowning in confusion.

"Oh... Sir Guy's orders. Thinks we might need it to get the Pact." Even as he made his excuse, Will wondered how Robin could be so anxious about his bow, of all things, when Marian was God-knew-where. Forcing him through the door, he muttered her name and received an answer that eased the tension in his shoulders just a little.

"Safe. Djaq? Much?"

"Safe. Camp," he breathed.

"So where's 'e stashed this Pact, then, that takes Gisbourne, all of you lot, two prisoners and a bow to get it out?" the guard asked.

"It's... some sort of booby-trap, we think," Will improvised. "Looks like you need to shoot the right place with an arrow to open it. If you touch it wrong, could take your arm off. That's why we need the traitors to get it." Instinctively, he began to ponder whether and how such a device might work, his mind seizing on the bizarre specifications that necessity had imposed on his invention.

"Blimey," the man said an involuntary twitch of his own arms. "Rather 'im than us, eh?"

Will nodded. "I'll say."

John gave the signal as soon as they were far enough inside the stable door.

"Wha-" the loquacious guard spluttered as his new friend turned and knocked him out with the handle of his axe. John dealt with his comrade before quickly slicing through Robin's bonds. A second later, their leader had Sir Martin up against the wall, sword pressed to his throat.

"Sir Edward had terrible taste in friends, it seems," he hissed. "First that lecherous worm Winchester, and now you. Did he know you were in Prince John's pocket?"

"No! I did this for Edward!" the old man protested, his fear overwhelmed by indignation.

"What?" Robin exclaimed, then lowered his voice as Will raised an urgent finger to his lips. "He died to get the Pact out of Vaysey's hands!"

"And it would have killed him to see his daughter gallivanting around the country, unwed, in the company of a criminal - loyal subject or no!" Sir Martin seemed to have decided that if he was about to die, he would say his piece first. "In the last letters I had from him, he was sick with worry about your influence, and now I see that he was right. I am King Richard's man, but my first duty is to my friend."

With a hollow, incredulous sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, Robin shook his head. "You cannot be King Richard's man and spy for his brother! It doesn't work like that." His chest, aching from Gisbourne's attacks, screamed at the effort of holding the big man up.

"I have done my part for Richard," Sir Martin insisted. "I introduced you to Peter Courtney, and I will never reveal that boy's name to Richard's enemies."

"No?" Robin scoffed. He made a mental note to get to the Courtneys and warn Peter to leave at once under a false name. "I'm afraid your assurances are not worth a great deal, considering that you've betrayed me those enemies."

"I owe my allegiance to the King, not to you. I gave you a chance to leave before John's men arrived."

"You gave me a chance to abandon Marian!" Robin said in disbelief.

"A chance to do the right thing! You chose your own path." His voice was accusing, and Robin wondered what it was about the traitors in his life that made them so convinced that they were in the right, that he had no-one but himself to blame for their treachery.

"I-"

"Robin!" John jerked his head towards the door. "Time to go!"

Robin hesitated, his blade still resting between the folds of skin on Sir Martin's wrinkled neck.

Marian loved him as an uncle.

_Robin, if you love me you will let him go... _

Taking him with them was out of the question, and yet he hated to think of leaving him here with Gisbourne, knowing what he knew.

_Please. Don't taint us with his blood. _

"Marian saved your life tonight," he said at last. "If you're serious about protecting her, you will never, ever speak her name to these people. And if you do, I will find you," he added fiercely.

"Never!" There it was again, that frenzied shake of the head, like a flag of surrender flapping in the wind.

Robin stepped back and sheathed his sword. "I would apologise for this, but I'd say the scores are about even."

"For-" Sir Martin's question ended prematurely as Robin's fist met his temple.

John, meanwhile, had been engaged in removing the uniform from one of the guards, and he handed it to Robin, carefully keeping his own bulk between the stall door and his two companions. It rankled him to be playing bodyguard to Gisbourne, but as repugnant as it was to torture a woman, it did not justify cold-blooded murder of an unconscious man. Robin Hood's men did not kill without need. "We go. Now!"

As Robin bundled the tunic and mail over his head, Will stood stock still. He had spent months reproaching himself for his explosion after his father was killed, but surely this was different. Gisbourne was not the Sheriff, with all Nottinghamshire for his ransom. Prince John had not guaranteed the life of the villain who had taken Allan, tortured Djaq and made him betray Robin. There would be no consequences, no reprisals.

"On your horse, lad." John stood his ground, arms crossed, making it plain that he would not move until he was obeyed. "The rescue is not over until we are away from here."

_Rescue._ The word acted like an antidote to the poisonous anger spreading outward from Will's heart to his axe-hand. They had come to save Robin, the same Robin who, in his mind's eye, now choked and crumpled before him with a bottle in his hand. It had all been an act, but the terror of that moment had been real and its effect on him had been lasting. It had made him afraid of what he was capable of when his rage outran his reason, and he had sworn never to forget that feeling.

With a last burning glare at John's boots that was meant for the head lying behind them, he swung himself into the saddle. Robin followed suit, comforting himself with the malicious thought that a Gisbourne still alive was a Gisbourne who would have to face the Sheriff's anger if news of tonight's fiasco got out.

As they rode out of the stable at a sedate pace, one of the soldiers on the roof shouted, "Where are you buggers off to, then?"

"Bloody London!" Robin called back in mock annoyance. "Sir Guy wants a message taken to the Sheriff."

"We won't be sleeping tonight," Will grumbled for good measure. "Hope you blokes find that scrap of paper soon so you can have a kip."

With cheery waves to the enemy troops, they spurred their horses to a fast trot. The sun was rising as they reached Otton, where the sleeping household was spared the scandal of seeing Lady Marian of Knighton depart on the back of an outlaw's horse. It was the second time that night that Robin was grateful for the existence of apple trees.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading - only one more chapter to go! (Wow, I feel relieved and sad at the same time.)**

**As always, I'd love to know what you thought of this one. And plotty action stuff like this chapter is sooo not my best thing, so any constructive criticism would be even more hugely appreciated than it usually is! **

**xx B.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Much wasn't having an easy night of it.

Long used to being told he was a fool, he was perfectly able to recognise that his reasons for staying awake by the fire while Djaq slept made no sense at all; but he still could not shake the superstitious hope that as long as he held sleep at bay, the disaster that threatened Robin and the others would not strike - or the more pessimistic thought that if they were all to die far away, the least he could do was to keep his eyes open while it happened.

As it was, his plans to spend the whole night worrying about his master had gone somewhat awry, his vigil interrupted not by sleep, but by a constant procession of noises that forced his mind away from the subject of Robin's safety to focus on more immediate fears for his own and Djaq's. He was certain that Sherwood Forest wasn't usually this _loud_. It seemed that every bird, beast and bough was doing its level best to sound like a troop of soldiers closing in on the camp to recover the missing prisoners. Already lying at his feet was the carcass of a young deer that had stepped on the wrong twig at the wrong time and paid the ultimate price for its folly. Since he was awake anyway, now would be a good time to start cooking it, but Much did not have the stomach for butchering tonight. Human or animal, the colour of blood was all the same, and the process of plunging a knife into a warm belly, pulling out heart and innards, and then slicing up the flesh was a little too close to the method of execution reserved for the worst of England's traitors – even if they were in fact not traitors at all, but loyal subjects arrested for trying to help the King in defiance of his enemies.

Suddenly, there was a rustling sound from somewhere to the east of the camp. Much froze for a moment, and then, with the resigned sigh of a man who knows he is jumping at shadows but is still unable to keep his feet on the ground, picked up the bow that lay beside him and went to investigate.

As he picked his way through the trees, swearing vengeance on whichever squirrel was responsible for this latest hilarious attempt to make him swallow his own tongue from fear, his ears were so full of the sound of his own laboured breathing and hammering heart that it took him a minute or two to realise that the noises were getting closer and louder; too loud to be the work of any forest creature.

_Oh God. _He pressed himself up against a tree as the footsteps approached. He wished he had woken Djaq; he'd just assumed it was another false alarm, but judging by the disturbance these trampling great feet were creating, there were at least half a dozen men at large in the forest, making their way towards the camp where she lay sleeping, completely unaware of the danger. As he debated whether to try to beat them there and warn her, or to create a diversion to try to lure them away, a dark-clad shape burst into view, a shape he had last seen only that morning, standing at Gisbourne's side as they were dragged from Jew Lane toward the castle.

Unbelievable. Wasn't it enough for Allan that his master had beaten Djaq to a pulp and was probably doing the same or worse to Robin at this very moment? Apparently not; he had come to finish the job of destroying those who had once called him friend. Much's anger chose his path for him. He put an arrow to his bow and fired a warning shot above Allan's head. "Stop! You are surrounded!" he announced in the most commanding voice he could muster.

"Much?" Allan took a step forward, and Much aimed another arrow at the ground in front of his feet.

"Don't come any closer! Where are the rest of you?"

"I'm on my own, alright! Where are the rest of _you_?" Much had asked the question with a bravado that he hoped covered his terror, but Allan's tone was different. He sounded almost... disappointed at having his life threatened by only a single longbow, rather than a staff, an axe, a Saracen bow and a sword in Saracen hands. He needn't feel so slighted, Much thought, deciding grimly that if he was to die here alone, as seemed likely, he would put up enough of a fight to avenge the others as well.

"Waiting to kill you if you take another step! Where are your thugs?" he repeated. The noise had stopped, so at least they weren't getting any closer to Djaq and the camp, but he would much rather have them where he could see them, even if he also feared to know exactly how badly he was outnumbered.

"Like I said, I don't-" Allan ignored him and moved forward, and Much loosed his arrow. In jumping back to avoid it the other man lost his footing and crashed heavily to the ground with an ungainly flailing of his arms that told Much he might actually be telling the truth about being alone.

"You're drunk," he accused.

Scrambling to stand, Allan supposed he had a point. He had lost count of how many ales he'd had, but he always knew exactly how many coins were in his pocket, and now it was empty, which suggested it had been more than a few. Enough, in any case, to ruin his little private celebration of the fact that the gang had escaped without it costing him his life or his cushy billet, by throwing open the doors to a number of uninvited guests. First had come idle curiosity as to how they had managed to get out, swiftly followed by nostalgia for the way they would be sitting around the camp tonight, laughing at the stupidity of whoever they had duped. Then resentment that they would never thank him for what he had done, and regret that they would never even know; anger that they had left too quickly and taken his chance for redemption with them, and at last a cold fear that he had refused to acknowledge while sober. Fear that they might have left too late.

"Where are they? Djaq, is she...?"

Much's eyes bulged in fury at the sound of her name. "She'll live, no thanks to you!" She might, too, he realised as the fear began to lift, and so might he. There was no troop of soldiers, just a loathsome drunken traitor making enough noise for an army, with the audacity to come staggering into Sherwood after everything his side had done to theirs. Much's fingers twitched on the string of his bow.

_She'll live._ The news was pure sweet relief, like the first breath of fresh air outside a stinking privy, but a second later Allan was choking again, this time on the injustice of Much's bitter words. He had run himself ragged for them, risked everything, and this was to be his reward? Through the beery fog, he remembered that they didn't know; that was why he had come, wasn't it? To make sure that everyone was alright, to tell them what he'd done, to laugh together over the story – bloody funny, really – of the Nightwatchman rushing through the castle to rescue prisoners who'd already flown the coop. To share their laughter, to be one of them again, and maybe even get a word of thanks for his trouble. In that dim space between a dozen ales and unconsciousness, it had seemed like a foolproof plan. "Look, I tried to help, alright? I was gonna-"

As Allan opened his mouth to unleash another flood of his pitiful lies and excuses, suddenly Much was not angry, just tired and cold and utterly, utterly disgusted. He wondered how this pathetic man had ever gained a reputation for having a silver tongue, when it was so obvious now that every word he spoke was tarnished and tawdry and as cheap as the tavern wenches who lapped up his feeble charm. He didn't want to kill him, not any more; he just wanted him gone from his sight before his revolting presence made him sick. "Get out!" he snapped, firing into the tree behind Allan's head. "Just _get out_! Now! You are not welcome in this forest, and if John and Will find you here they _will _kill you!"

Two more arrows embedded themselves in the wood, mere inches from Allan's face, but the threat of Will's anger hit him squarely between the eyes. Much wouldn't even let him finish a sentence, and it would take a lot more than that to explain himself to Will, who had viewed him not just as a an annoyingly mouthy comrade, but as a friend, a brother - the kind of brother Allan had never really had. Will, who had spent the afternoon watching the woman he loved at Guy's mercy, and might well have guessed why he had been chosen to witness it. Already, the ale had made Allan's tongue feel slow and heavy, mired in the sawdust dryness of his mouth, and all at once it seemed an impossibly difficult task to make Will understand that he had given Guy his name for the same reason that Will had almost certainly blurted out Robin's mysterious secret. _Exactly_ the same reason.

He wouldn't see that though, would he? Even in the old days, the cloth of their fellowship had been woven through with the mostly silent assumption of the difference between them. Will took it as a given that he towered over Allan in morality as naturally as he did in height, and even when their actions were the same - that ill-fated jaunt to Scarborough, for instance - he was quick to take the credit and deal Allan the blame. If they were brothers, then he was the black sheep, and Will was the one from that story Djaq had once told them, the one with the perfect, shining golden fleece.

No, Will would not be quick to understand him, and on this occasion his axe would be faster than Allan's tongue.

As another arrow whizzed past him, Allan's sense of the reward that was due to him collapsed beneath the vast effort of claiming it. He turned on his heel and fled clumsily into the trees.

Much watched him go, the nauseated feeling in the pit of his stomach smothering any satisfaction he might, on another occasion, have derived from getting the last word. With a puzzled frown, he picked up the bundle of cloth that Allan had dropped when he fell, and walked back to camp.

When he returned, Djaq was awake and struggling to buckle on her swordbelt with one hand. She dropped it when she saw him. "Where have you been? I was about to come and look for you!"

"I heard a noise," he answered. "But it was nothing. Just a... a weasel scrabbling about in the leaves. Not even worth shooting for supper. Go to sleep."

He dropped his light burden and made his way back to the fire.

Travelers and rescue-party alike returned to Sherwood at nightfall the next day, to an exceedingly happy welcome and a meal of roasted venison. As he told the story of their daring escape, Robin didn't notice that Will wasn't listening to the account with his usual quite satisfaction.

The first chance he got on the journey home, the young man had brought his horse level with Robin's and offered a straightforward apology. He brushed aside Robin's first response - that if not for Will, he would have been captured by Prince John's guards in the morning, and with nobody to rescue him.

"That's not the point, Robin," he'd said, with a vehemence that seemed to be directed more inwards than out. "I didn't know that when I said it. I didn't know we'd have a chance to come after you. I promise you, I would die before betraying you. But I just... couldn't let-"

"Will," Robin interrupted him. "I know. I trust you, my friend. This changes nothing." If anything, he trusted him more now. He had always trusted Will Scarlett to be faithful to him, and, perhaps more than anyone else, to share the passionate hatred of injustice that drove him to fight for the poor. But after today, he knew he could rely on Will to understand another of the forces that fought for possession of his every waking hour: the pressing need to protect the woman he loved from harm. It was an urge he struggled to control, forcing himself to respect Marian's strength and independence, to treat her differently from the Sir Martins of this world. But if it came down to it, he would battle whole armies to keep her safe, and if ever he needed a second it would be Will, because Will knew exactly how he felt.

Neither on the road, as he fell back to talk to Marian, nor by the campfire as he tucked into his supper, did it occur to him that his words had not entirely erased the frown lines from Will's face. But when the meal was over, Djaq tactfully left Much and Marian to fight over the task of tending to Robin's bruises, and made her way to where he sat, staring into the flames. She waved her bandaged hand before his eyes. "Help me with the splint on this? Much did not do a very good job."

Will couldn't see anything wrong with Much's neat handiwork – not for nothing had the manservant spent ten years darning Robin's socks – but he nodded. Just as Djaq knew that it was easiest for him to talk when his hands were busy, he knew how to recognise the look on her face that said she intended to make him. She settled down beside him, and he rested her wrist in the palm of his left hand and began to unwind the strips of cloth, taking care not to jar the broken fingers.

Djaq waited for him to get into the rhythm of the task before she began, cutting straight to the heart of the matter. "I know what you're thinking. Will, this is nothing like what Allan did."

Only his long years of practice at delicate, painstaking work with dangerous tools kept Will's hands steady as he continued to peel away the layers of bandaging. Was it that obvious? Did it somehow show in his face, the way those piercing blue eyes grinned at him in triumphant complicity every time he closed his own?

Or perhaps it was simply that the word "betrayal" had acquired a new synonym for Djaq, just as it had for him; an added shade of meaning that could not be escaped and that turned an already ugly notion into something raw and vile and excruciating.

"Isn't it?" he asked. "You said it yourself. He was..." Will turned his gaze towards the trees, unable to look at either Djaq's injured hand or her battered face while he finished that sentence. "He was probably tortured."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her shake her head. "He agreed under torture, but he carried on for money. Honour is not what you are made to do, it is what you choose to do. Both of you did what you had to, but you made things right the first chance you got. Allan had plenty of chances." She paused, but Will kept up his gentle, spiralling progress, aware that that it was not any pain he had caused that made her force the last words out through gritted teeth. "He just did not choose to take them. He chose money and cowardice over... over his friends."

The last of the bandages were off now, revealing the crushed mess of ugly purple bruising beneath, clearly visible even on her dark skin. Will sucked in a breath, his fingers tightening slightly around her wrist. "Does it hurt?"

The question hung in the air for a long moment, far longer than it should have taken a physician to assess the state of her own right hand.

"No," she said at last in a strange, toneless voice. "I barely feel it any more."

Will repositioned the splint so it was sitting straight, narrowing his eyes as if to gauge the level of a roof or a tabletop. Perhaps Djaq took his frown of concentration for something else; in any case, she lost her patience. "Do not play the martyr and punish yourself for Allan's crimes," she snapped. "It is not the same thing. Nobody here has any doubt that you are a good man, and if you do then you are a fool."

"Allan is a good man, too." He said it as a statement of fact, but really it was a question, one they had debated more than once in the weeks since their friend had left. He'd always ended up agreeing with her, a little afraid to hear what she would say if pushed too far in Allan's defence.

"He is a good man," Djaq said softly. Will's chest burned with anger. _A good man! It is his fault Gisbourne chose you._ He wanted to scream out the truth, but he couldn't accuse Allan of revealing his secret without telling her what it was, and he was not ready for that; perhaps he never would be, the way Allan's shadow persisted in hanging over them even after he was gone.

Djaq was not finished, however, continuing as Will bound the splint in place again. "But you are a better one. He is weak; too weak to be loyal to his friends, or to what we do. He cares for nothing but himself, and even then only for the food in his belly and the skin on his back." She spoke in the same voice she used to describe the symptoms of an illness or the properties of a herb, the voice of someone sharing knowledge won through long, hard study. "But you are not like him; you will always have the strength to stay true to the things that matter to you. You are twice the man he is. At least, you would be, if you were not sulking like a child," she added, clearly feeling her honeyed words could do with a little more medicine.

"I'm not sulking," Will said honestly. Perhaps he had been, but now he was feeling unaccountably cheerful. Securing the ends of the bandage, he gave her a diffident smile. "I'd say you were twice the man he is too, but..." He twitched his head in her direction, pointing out the obvious problem with that statement.

Djaq laughed. "I am a woman; of course I am worth ten of you all!" She removed her injured hand from his, only to replace it with her good one. "Thank you," she said, looking straight into his eyes as, only yesterday, he had feared she would never do again. _Ten? A hundred. More._

"Are you all right now?"

He nodded, trusting her to read his thanks in the gesture, and she stood up. "Good night, Will."

"Good night. Sleep well."

Djaq limped away from the firelight towards her bunk. After the fear and panic and worry of the last few days, they would all sleep very well tonight.

Well accustomed to the cluttered chaos of a dirt-floored campsite inhabited by four men, a woman used to servants, and her less-than-tidy self, she didn't look down as she stepped over a dark bundle of cloth, lying forgotten on the floor.

**The End**

_Not really the end of course - a few weeks later a pigeon called Lardner came to Sherwood Forest, and the rest is history (of the cargo-pants and combat-boots variety...) I've basically tried to hit the reset button, while starting to build towards some of the events of the latter end of the season._

_And woo! Finished! Just in time, as I'm off on my holidays in (counts...) 11 hours, and I really wanted to get this posted before I go. Neglecting one fic at a time is quite enough for me._

_Huge, huge thanks to everyone who's taken the time to read this story, those who've added it to their alerts or favourites, and especially the lovely reviewers._ _You are as awesome "as a __beautiful beautiful beautiful sunset-over-sherwood-forest-after-yet-another-successful-foiling-of-the-sheriff's-plan." (Simile © whatsthefracas, 2008)._


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